Sheltering from a summer shower
beneath the portico of the Tunsgate Arch,
Guildford, I looked down the steep High Street
towards the bridge over the River Wey
and saw three bespectacled Buddhist Monks
emerge from Dolland & Aitchison and,
lifting their saffron robes, run to Jigsaw.
Enjoying my pan fried sea bass and Guinness
in The Faulkner, Hoole, and watching the rain
trickle down the Walker Street Co-op’s facade,
my view was suddenly blocked by a coach
from which a party of middle aged
Japanese tourists descended and,
brollies hoisted, ran over the road
to The Bromfield Arms with its vending machines,
flat screen tvs and menu of ‘Pub Classics’.
When I was a young man I assumed wonders
had to be travelled to: Maldon, Marseilles,
Moose Jaw, Machu Picchu – but now I know
you only have to stand and wait or sit.