The Upper City

        ---- As the Sun rises, let thy sore disease and yellowness depart.
        We compass and surround thee with the colour of a ruddy ox.
        With ruddy hues we compass thee that thou mayst live a lengthened life.

        ---- "Hymns of the Atharva Veda", by Ralph T.H. Griffith, Book I, Hymn XXII



From tramline rails across a passageway
To grey rose petals scattered on the floor,
From Heaven upstairs to the Hell next door,
From life to death. No price too high to pay
For chance to roam, avoiding "I" or "me",
Those rolling streets like waves on midnight sea.

With luring alleys under every arch
The city lies before you like a trap.
Though February is charted on the map
What you are truly seeking here is March.
You've long lost count of your erratic trips
And humid air has sealed your twitching lips.

Your dreams bring a surprise at every turn
Rewarding your unfocused winding search, --
An ancient rood inside a dim-lit church
Where in the incense mist some candles burn,
A ruddy ox in crumbling cowshed,
An empty suitcase by a hotel bed.

You're calm enough to cherish every look, --
No wink to skip, no promise to amend,
No price too high to pay. From start to end,
From gift they gave you to the gift they took,
From gentle snow descending all around
To waters bubbling under frozen ground,

From tiny chip in age'd windowsill,
Transfixed in warmth held by the sleepy hand,
Your spirit jumps and flies above the land
To twinkling starlight, high and higher still,
Until the city in its silent glow
Turns into flat and coloured Map below.