In smog at dawn, such as it was, a man,
A little young to be so stooped, retrieved
With pious care the aitches which were left
From yesterday's conversations. Horses dropped
As well, but letters glitter, even mucked.
He put them in his gunny.
Another man,
Maybe a boy, polished the anecdotes
Piled on each corner. His blue camisole
And tawny trousers, stained with riverweeds,
Implied how long the stories had been passed;
And still they mirrored, rubbed with spit and hock.
The fog smelled of cabbage. Atop St Paul's the cross
Bobbed to the time daws kept. A little girl
Invited passers-by to take her home
To tell their missus what she ought to do
With all them stays and crinolines. She wore
Chapter and verse, and not too much of either.
A constable suggested she might make
The lilies of the field her chaperone.
She didn't seem inclined to heed the call.
In the damp thoroughfare a printing press,
Strewing its papers, signalled for a turn.
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