The neighbours' music pulses through the wall-
they have bad taste. Restless, I tie my shoes
and leave. Drawn downhill by traffic white noise
on Lewes Road, the street no different now
than when I taught myself this city through
a bus window two years ago. I walk.
Saint Peter's Church throws shadows on my walk;
a welcome tunnel through the humid wall
of April sunlight bursting madly through
a long, restraining winter. Skilled, my shoes-
avoid the clamour of the Laines for now-
they pick their way toward the sea's hushed noise.
Finding a bench removed from tourist-noise
I recognise the stones on which I walk:
This spot, where Amy (Masters student now)
once ran too fast to stop before the wall
of over-eager waves absorbed her shoes.
She traipsed back with her socks soaked through.
I smile and watch the memory play through
then leave, disturbed by heartless seagull noise.
They strut with menace, cracked like beggars' shoes,
their copper eyes are acid as I walk
away. A firing squad on the sea wall
takes wing, and I'm back up on the road now.
I crave the heaving overcrowded Laines now;
the sweating hippies drift serenely through
saxophone alleys a nagchampa wall
and everywhere their vivid flavoured noise.
The cobblestones feel wonderful to walk
on; press conspicuously at my shoes.
Identifying Pawo by his shoes
untied and frayed, pausing, he sees me now.
Hello dear man! Embracing when I walk
to greet him, wisdom peering softly through
meek orange robes rustling above the noise
around us, in the shade cast by the wall.
My shoes flash quick as I hurry home through
Brighton, inspired now by every noise
and sight and thought, and I could walk through walls.