Saint Paul's Cathedral from Ludgate Hill

Dawn ebbs, half-light recedes, and only the faintest traces of night linger in the side alleys that reach from the yawning street. Soft city daylight replaces slumber, the metallic rattle of the shop fronts sign in the untouched day like an alarm bell. This is
Ludgate Hill viewed through the concrete corona of the closing streetlamps that jewel the tired pavements. Dozy pigeon coos rise from this enchanted vista; sweet canticles for a deserted Saint Paul's, delivered to the sky.

Clouds cascade in crazy blue prayers, shroud the roads like providence aloof. A tarmac God calls the fleet of night angels home, turns his cloaked back on the few wanderers who tread the pavement. Mouths heavy in black coffee doldrums, they walk past the shuttered husk of a pub, whose floral tributes line the roads for unseen mourners. The funeral procession passed peacefully with the weekday tide upon which empty kegs of grief clatters on their outbound ceremonial journey, just a vestige of yesterday's cheers.

Abandonment envelops this forsaken environ. The cathedral, crusted in grime, a haunted paragon for relic services that drew inspiration from the dust. How can such great wealth make its home, I wonder, in such poverty?