The Romans most likely left this town in summer,
the heat being oppressive without the view of
Rome or Capri, but I am here, looking at the
pink and blue clouds coming off the Estuary.
At least, now, there are fish in the Thames again,
and there are children, but not those of the Cantiaci,
rather of the Commonwealth. Heat and a modern
version of the fog keep me awake at night.
I cannot sleep as I hear those Londoners walking
home from the pub, or wherever, like characters
from Dickens, yelling their names under the lamplight,
telling their stories after midnight, as if no one could hear.
Eppillus would be amused at the various lovers' tiffs
surrounding his lands and punctuating the steam of the night.
But, I would rather listen to the silence, and miss the sea;
too far from the Thames are the waves off Dubris.
Sleep evades us all in London in August, and the ancients,
as well as the descendants of Austen, left for cooler climes.
Did they go to Aquae Sulis with their new loves, or Vectis with
the children and matrona, playing in the sand, dreaming
Of Stabiae, and the Bay of Naples, with clearer springs
than those of Aquae Sulis and did the materfamilias complain
of the lack of shops and popinae as well as the humidity?
Will we ever see villa and canis again, and where is a decent
Wine to celebrate Vinalia rustica? But, no, not on these shores
under the sign of Canis major, whose star hides under the
clouds and fog from the Tames, who gives potters a name.
No Opiconsivia here on the embankment.
So, I think of other things, listening as the small birds
which linger in the late summer wake and sing slow songs
without passion, but out of habit, or wanting to praise God,
which is what I do in the early dawn, of blue and pink
A mirror image of the dusk seen so many hours ago.
