London, with nothing to say this mourning.

The layer earth beneath my shoes, deep with the memory of other essences.

Concrete covered with black earth down there far enough,

perhaps if you

go past the cables and sewers and other lines of modern city life

you'll find plague victims, skeletal remains of English ancestors.

Perhaps you'll find a paved over river, like the Fleet, a stream that once knew the

sky, into it leaf's in the fall cried.

People have walked this way since before the Romans.

Mist rolls off of the Themes, the Queens Walk does not

sponge me like them,

or maybe it did, and I did not consent.

So many people and storys, what is one more to the

Ancient stream?

Place of Celtic offerings of shield and sword.

But returning lonesome, board.

I retreat to a bench, look across and ponder St. Paul's.

I think of the Elizabethan wooden city before

the fire.

Even in Dickens's day there was some remaining.

Half timbered, jutting out over the ground floor.

Full with the memories of people.

And rainy days innumerable.

I try to write of the brick city,

That replaced the timber and Thatch one.

the Georgian, Regency, and Victorian.

I spy cranes building steel and glass

competitors.

I think of the club I was at

last night.

The  sound system, techno

and day-glow people.

Fashionably today,

and yet yesterday?

-I tried to write and find I could not,

Steps away from the footsteeps of

Shakespeare.

 

 

Reviews

[Lia]

Great piece. Thanks xx