on the walbrook
with the mornin’ sun
breath of soldiers
fillin’ the air,
their prayers to mithras
come to deliver on
countless military
supplications
chanted with iron
dedication
in his direction
autocrat of light
to ranked centurions
city stuck or
makin’ their way north
to the misty wall
made by slaves in the
shade of the gaze of
emperor hadrian
millennia later
far beneath the stones
a river daily weeps
for those mithras days
way down the line in
time’s incinerator
turnin’ away from
the heat of the such
imagined memories
my heart blazes with
so much light it beats
bumps into my throat
gulp pulps arisen in
perfect persian croaks
- from London Works
