Unreal City

Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
Phlebitis stands before the London Bridge.
So many travel its ancient stones,
Their feet wearing paths to the City's many thrones,
And yet none of those who pass him by
Acknowledge him, and he needs not ask why
For all carry a stone chained 'round their neck
That describes the day they died.

Saint Mary Woolnoth still keeps the hours,
Her dead chimes ringing as mechanical and soulless
As all the folk that cross the bridge,
Save one.
Phlebitis, though he fears he may be undone
Has braved the fog and the treacherous way,
And now stands upon the London Bridge,
Amidst a crowd of the curious dead.

And there he spies one who once he knew,
An erstwhile member of his ship's poor crew.
"Haregebo!" he spits,
The very name a curse upon his lips.
A grey-skinned head must slow arise,
An unearthly light glowing in its eyes,
And Phlebitis, uncaring, continues on,
Upbraiding a man whose spirit's long gone.

"Haregebo, you rogue, you lying wretch!
Stand you alone amongst the men you were sent to fetch?
These corpses here were planted by you,
In the garden where things never grew.
The frost came and raked across the soil,
Wolves howled at the door,
And Famine stalked my porch for weeks.
You are as unfaithful a servant as I have ever had,
And to see you here dead; well I am glad."
But what Phlebitis cannot bring himself to say,
Is that even in death
A familiar face makes easier the way.

And so to the City, the Unreal City,
Phlebitis returns with heavy heart and leaden steps.
The City Directors still sit in state,
The City Directors still lie in wait,
And the Phoenician Sailor who can't know his fate,
Stands at last at the southern gate.