Somewhere Northerly Poem by Evan Fowler

I am in an airport somewhere Northerly;
students are drinking coffee in small groups
and discussing the odds of our staying overnight.
The building is spacious;someone jokes
we'll each have our own Departure Lounge.
Gradually we drift to the Yoga Center,

which is a bus traveling on a high, narrow road
facing a great river.The views
are spectacular ; the driver draws attention
to a row of elegant homes below,
the second-most magnificent owned by an old
rock star we all know is ill, waiting to die.

The road leads to the river
and here we are in the far west of London,
Kingston, maybe.Although it is midwinter
crowds of people are engaged in absurd,
elaborate exercises in the water and I laugh,
reminded of Bosch.There is also a deep pool,

part of the river that ate itself,
where no one is swimming.
Overlooking it stands an ornate Victorian
brick pub, the kind you'd consider
moving to be near.In fact someone asks
if I'm moving here.

Under the pool lies the green tomb
of a pre-Celtic king.I think of him
there stretched out flat beneath armor
and water, waiting to rise,
and a rose-bush blooms right in the street,
every bud opens, gasping for air.