Soulitude at Londinium

Soulitude at Londinium by J.B. Pravda

On the cobbled way, a footfall crunches, singular then echoed by its
fellows, incorporeal yet present;

Millennial marchings are somehow heard, clanking, clanging, plodding
toward Tyburn.

Still green fields evince the traverse of wagon wheel, lightly midst
dewey sprigs of grassland;

Anciently fomented solar radiance races to crest a horizon old with
features ever-new,

Seeking to illuminate that part of the temporal dimension known as Now,
a-morning.

How many have trod her winding ways, seeking that Sun, their place in
its beaming presence, from so many shores, stamping, however
transitory, their extancy upon that once Roman enclave?

A callbox rings, blazing its redness sturdily, seeming to summon its
brothers and sisters of inanimation to service yet again;

Hearing the lark's ancient awakening tune, the modern Anyman stirs from
turgid semi-somnolence, unknown travels on Chaos' roads awaiting,
ominously;

The nursery rhymed Bridge taunts time/space with proud juttings
reaffirming to all her tenacious span of space, and time;

The compound simulacra of ages past ethereally boasting their unseeable
abiding in this, their mortal home,

Fountainhead of Brittania since Sir John Dee dared invoke angelic
protection at modernity's Elizabethan dawning in such ways that the
Sun, Herself, soon greets Her rays' favored Earthfall.