After Mary Robinson

Who has not stirred to hear the restless hum
Of London waking, bathed in amber light?
The screech of buses, chatter in the streets,
The whoosh of cyclists weaving past in streams,
While neon vests of builders blaze like fire
On scaffolded horizons. At the door,
The courier drops a parcel, scanning codes,
A takeaway bag swinging at his side.

Now coffee machines whirr in glass-fronted shops,
And oat-flat-white seekers queue in droves.
On every corner, fruit stalls gleam with hues—
Mango, dragon fruit, and avocados ripe—
While buskers pluck at strings or drum on tins,
Their rhythms swallowed by the sirens' wail.

Along the pavement, runners pace their miles,
Earbuds humming podcasts, heads downturned.
The underground exhales its gusts of heat,
As screens announce delays in sterile tones.
Through sliding doors, the weary office swarm
Spills out, lattes in hand, as newsfeeds scroll
Across impatient thumbs.

Now sunlit glass ignites the towering spires
Of corporate kingdoms; power-suited ghosts
Glide past graffiti scrawled on shuttered shops.
Food vans perfume the air with scents of spice,
As traders banter over steaming woks.

At dusk, the rooftop gardens glow with life,
Cocktails raised to city skylines, while below,
The pavement poets dream of better days—
And London, ever-changing, hums along.

I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown
The seed that they had garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith, that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume
With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
This is the field and Acre of our God,
This is the place where human harvests grow!