Monday, 19 March 2012


I come from where those feet did walk, to wander down the charter'd streets, near the shuddering Thames and nearer still to the slithering Creek.
I bring my own darkening Green, through an ocean of buses. It echoes with boy and girl and elation and guilt.
I watch the rioters dance.
I watch the dancers riot.
I once again marvel at the company I keep and wonder what Blake may have thought of us. Of the pictures that we draw, of the prints that we press. Our game of sticks and ladders...

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