Sight is polarized by plastic shade
so colours can pop
in the long sun of October.

Eyes are shaded too
to what may be occurring
in the urbanity below;

ears are equally distanced from Gideon's
voice who will be evangelising
with jarring determinism

austerity for the many
across the air
and upon the screen.

Instead on these hills I hear
church bells tuned to the breeze,
discordant Jay

in the boughs,
the rustle of moist russet
chestnut leaves beneath

my tread as I approach
St Anne’s Well.
Once a fashionable

destination for those
seeking healing,
a fountain for

the towns prosperity
'till Typhoid's roses
appeared upon three patients.

The press rejoiced
in the scandal and sought
to blame the Doctor

whose cold water cures
had been seen to ****,
causing three to be buried.

So bankruptcy ensued,
town declined,
bacteria remained unsought.