The moon is quiet and thoughtful.

Roads barren and damp with the sweat of horses and their riders.

Prints of disheveled hooves embedded in the ground.

The putrid smell of smog, hints of cobblestone and blithering drunks, waits in the distance.

London’s finest on Fleet Street, where the people live in fear.

Todd glares into the fiercely sparse street and mourns a farewell to a life of prosperity.

Lamps flicker as the oil barely lingers, while dawn silently but swiftly approaches.

The poets dream for slews of new and benevolent days, whilst their slumber is interrupted by the tower bell.

Six times the ringing and the brightest star reveals its radiant beauty o’er the steamy ledges of London.