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The ghosts of London whisper past

They tip their hats, I bow my head

The rustle of wool

The click of shoes and silver-tipped canes

A single curl of fog

Around the feet

Of those, whose souls

Once roamed the cobbled streets

Whose eyes glint

With gaslight

And hands crinkle

Yellowed pages of books

Worn through their binding

Collecting dust and tender glances

From their shelves

Fingers, though bare

Perpetually clad in black leather

Necks held in starched collars

Cased in silk

A voice, whose vowels

Hearken back

To clouds and rain and brickwork

And the clatter from the streets

The lives

Of London

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woostering

May 2014

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