In July in Via dell Plebiscito
Improbable sea-gulls begin at five-fifteen,
Their ugly, mechanical, repetitious squawks
Reminding me of my time in Scotland,
In the cities of its eastern coastline,
Where in summer the sun hardly sets at all.
And, in turn, my mind goes back to Revelation
And the anti-Christ emerging from a city
Of seven hills: Athens, Rome, Sheffield,
Aberdeen, Aberystwyth, the last
A place name I cannot quite pronounce.
And I wonder, in sleepless delirium,
Whether, since that prophecy was made,
These tongue-tied scavengers have not been attempting
To stutter out their knowledge of the answer.