Bunhill Fields

William Blake said to me
(he was nearby)
blessings my son for you
are one of the many few
who have seen fair London
on its deepest brightest
longest darkest day
(his grey angel wings fluttering away)

what is it to see
the bloodied husk of death
waiting for his man
and the other
bright tide puller
phospherous above
batter seas four pylons?

my answer
to his raucous silence
is the mirrored reflection
of a tree in the ocean
surface of her
blonde pearl smile