The sun is the most delicate pearl against the mist, and by this weakness could easily be mistaken for her sister,
The Thames grey, as if deceitfully paved,
The municipal outlines smoothed to deadening.
Morning or evening is it?
Unless being borne along by time, involuntarily in that channel’s flow, how shall we say?
The nocturne living well in ambiguity, and ambiguity has always been a cause of sorrow to humans. Deduction from the available facts, someone is needed to help us.
Sorrow, even the strongest city is broken-hearted,
Fissured, the river always running through.
Old story, founded on fording-place, growing up as hamlet, village, town,
The city stitched together by bridge and bridge and bridge,
The heart sutured, temporarily.
Make the day rise, and a strong sun burn against equivocation.
Since embedded in the tideway’s ooze is, as a pitch oblong, a blunt obstacle,
Subject to the lap of winter ebb but unmoved,
And visible to all passers-by of the two embankments (safely living),
Together with, to be revealed at St. Bartholomew’s morgue, its pitiful occupant.
On the south shore, between the Victoria Railway and Albert bridges, by Nine Elms lane, to be the Mystery of Nine Elms Reach.
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When No One is Looking by Hannah Shilling is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at https://acedusa.wordpress.com/sherlock/