Ah, there he stands, the great Horatio,
Looking down on London’s square. I’ve been
On a long journey through the streets of stone,
My sculptor’s chisel honed, my eye as keen
As bird’s. I’ve serviced well a royal house;
They paid me not, until the very last,
But stone will do me well to tell the tale
Resistant to the skirmish and the blast.
The eye arises; but do his eyes look down?
Eve on her fountain dances in the wind
From nowhere. I must celebrate
In monuments of marble, so well pinned
That they’ll not fall until the thankless town
Salutes the hero and his burning freight.
David Punter.