She left in the morning with just a burlap sack
She sat upon the bus with the sack upon her lap
She marvelled at the travellers who all looked very sad
And in the service-stop the salesmen, they all seemed very sad
And the teller and the feller selling coffee, they seemed sad
And she prayed that the city was exempt from all this sad

But when she arrived in the city not far after five
All the faces seemed blurred
And only half-way alive
So she sat by a statue, tried to pin down the picture
But her eyes weren’t adjusted, and her brain wouldn’t let her
And a man shouted at her
And another tried to tempt her
And she slept in a doorway till a cop came and kicked her

So she walked by the river where a man tried to trick her…
And as the drunks staggered homeward and the jackals closed their eyes
She began to see the city as the sun began to rise
And in the shadows of the shards and the black brick buildings
The steeples and the courtyards had their moment of revealing:

Amidst the sky-scape of Hawksmoor and the mind-scape of Blake
A landscape of Albion was summoned in its wake
And the God within the River raised his head to shake his hair
And the ancient stone of London sent a signal to her there
And the head of Bryn ascended from a mound near Tower Hill
Whilst the Southwark geese all danced to a mighty jig and reel
She heard the echoes of the anarchy of ancient London fayre’s
Where the rich never lingered, and the power never dared
She glimpsed the ghost of Jack Sheppard upon the rooftops of the Squares
And Leno’s crazy clog-dance whipped a whirlwind in the air

All the heroes of the city filled her aching soul with light
As she pulled her knees to her chest and curled her aching body tight
Cocooned now in sleep, the revelries all ended
And she dreamt the city back to life, as the worker-ants descended
And each and every day thereon she would dream as they descended

Now she sees beyond the blurs and the slate-grey etched-in faces
She sleeps amidst the majesty of all the hidden holy places
She lies outside the fear and lies; the ruckus; riot; and squall
Some say she’s an incarnation of the Holy Hermit in the wall.
But maybe she’s a frequency – outside of space and time
And the spirit of the City, within her now resides

And though the Peace of the city is killed by screaming cars
And the Light of the city extinguishes the stars
And the Heart of the city is banished to the edges
And the Beat of the city is traded by the hedgers  
The Soul of the city is safe within her hold
So pray tonight she’s wrapped up tight against the biting cold.

-And bless her when you see her and thank her for her dreams
For the dreams she weaves are miracles and we are products of those dreams

So bless her
If you see her
And maybe, you could feed her
For though the city is her lifeblood
It often fails to feed her
And if the city shall not feed her, and if she fails to dream
Well – can you truly visualise a world devoid of dreams?

-Can any of us visualise - a world devoid of dreams?