Let the evening bells of Mancroft sound
And soothe the head of Thomas Browne,
A bronze doctor gazing from his high chair,
On greed, despair and designer wear.
Tread the empty market with a twilight heart
Think slowly in the arch of St John Maddermar't,
Would your ribs were finely vaulted stone
Not this warm, tremulous, inconstant bone.
Ponder on St Greg's, the dark west-work doors,
In contemplation, retreat from worldly flaws
And down long, quiet St Lawrence Steps,
Gently worn as each century wept,
Find the river. Where it always was,
And cross in reverence to St Michael Cos.
North, north city, you are there, I know,
Dane burnt, road ravaged, your cherry trees grow.
Richard the Heremyte