The city’s still and empty paths –
Between the churches, through the fumes –
Are lines connecting times of change
From peasants’ lands to gilded claims.
We trace Brick Lane and Spitalfields.
We visit Blake: his grave at odds.
We walk down Moorgate, cold as plague,
And breathe the fires of old Blackfriars.
Beneath the heartless greed and lies,
The godless domes and faithless spires,
We find a world of poet’s songs,
And Celtic track-ways lost, not gone.
This hidden London seeks the light,
Downtrodden worlds and open minds.