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.