Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.

Ancient Mountain,
Under stars of a moonless night,
I walk alone up the hill, two hours from dawn
Saying, "I am glad to be dying with Topaz".
Breathing deep and exhaling long,
My eyes scan the sky far above.
At the hilltop trees open to meadow
And the house where I write these words
Is bright with light and the smell of coffee.