The Shrine

She lay at my feet but I was the worshipper; she the shrine, I the humble supplicant. But I looked down on her sinuous length and proportionate breadth, comely, shapely; her form rising and falling as it should; I saw the orient-pearl-like lustre from within, gleaming in the early morning light; I felt her spirit move. Yet, how many times has she nearly died? Twice at least and in storms of fire; but she has survived, pulled through, arisen and recovered; the beauty of her face and form only increasing with the years and no one would dream of asking her "where are the snows of yesteryear", for she evidently has the gift of eternal youth, as well as an ancient lineage, and she stands facing the forward years and the challenges to come, rather than resting on her undoubted laurels. Her history is the foundation stone of her continuing evolution; always aiming higher, for better things, whatever the current state of things.

I should like to draw her stretched out there, with the light just so upon her but she is too complex and I am not artist enough to come close to the truth. Maybe, one day I shall get there but, until I do, I am sure that, on a clear day and regardless of the season or the weather, from Greenwich Park, none the world around, is the equal of our City.