Up, up the raven flies

from the Tower's scaly height,

and in its coal black downward view

the Thames is shrouded

as low slung day

turns to charcoal night.

 

This he sees:

Sailing ships are scuttling

encrusting the sun's last rays

the spines of wharves close - pressed

for all the world's commercial gaze.

 

Matelot and lashkar dark and fair

come to Chinatown, opium dens

share their spoils,

indulging appetites for slattern and tavern.

 

Up, up the raven flies

with all its secrets wing concealed,

holds fast its legacy of London Town

in Georgian streets to dip and dive

into garret and draughty loft

 

then back to where its wary nest

resides on deepest lintel

to dreams of darkness troth and blood

remnants to digest.