The City

Hauls itself out of riversilt and swamp,

trailing marshdamp and the warmth

of creatures it has slept with all these years.

Makes itself up in layers, from clay and chalk,

brick by brick of London stock, standing

not on solid rock, but breathing water.

Rises up at Ludgate Hill to feel

the people flowing through it veins,

and still, the secrets in its underdank,

its lanes, Ropemaker Street, Saddler’s Hill,

Goldsmith Street, Ironmonger Lane,

a geography of daily needs.

The City maps its appetites, its hunger,

so that even now a woman lifts her mouth

in Bread Street, Corn Hill, Milk Street,

Honey Lane, to taste the names,

and taste the names again.

On Wood Street, a thrush begins to sing.

Then her eyes remember

The colours flood back in.