Albigensian frenglo-angles

So Prince Henry, Ugly Duckling, winds his ever-so-clever Subtilitie of tongue down London way... wheedling & yodeling his mellifluous Thames theme.  It will only deepen and grow darker later, methinks; there be more to face that he hath not yet.  Meanwhile he slithers on, whistling past his own self-consciousness, in the famous Capital... (p.s. the sculpture along the Thames which stimulated Our Hero in such a timely way was Atalanta, by Francis Derwent Wood).

from Ancient Light

       What is this ancientnew lighthearted light
       in a realm of frozen monumental statuettes? 
       Kissed to life by a skittish Provençal quintet 
       named Quitterie?  It was by the Thames we met,
       in Chelsea, across the road from Cheyne Walk; 
       I'd been four days already in the capital, 
       wandering lonely as a crowd.  Near the tall 
       and glittering bridge the houseboats knocked
       against the pier.  We glanced, and looked again, 
       awkward to speak.  I let you go, far up along the bank; 
       passed a statue of a naked woman, rank
       with fleshlier mettle – but it made me try again!
       – caught up with you by the next crossing;
       said something passable and mild; compared 
       our maps, our plans, our lack-of-plans – and fared 
       together into Chelsea. Bluejays began to sing. . .
       It was an alba – Albigensian,
       and guileless. We walked together, 
       barely understood each other –
       beginning again and again
       with friendly frenglo-angles, tongue to tongue 
       – piloting, from there to Leicester Square, 
       between adultery and innocence, aware 
       that freedom gives the lie – the fIrst rung
       on the ladder to those penetrating bells
       (if only we ring true).  Prodigal children, 
       Love is prodigal – more prodigal than sin
       So sang the spendthrift preacher of St. Pauls'.
       And in the maelstrom under Nelson's gnomon 
       (sun gone down, St. Martin-in-the-Fields) 
       granted a graceful Provençal farewell, I sealed      
       (canonical) my Book of Q (Lips Monastery). Gone.

Another rose window

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