City from a hill, though open windows

London to the silence
of eight million sleeping - curled, sprawled,
together or alone -
a counterpane of bodies, each
held in its own breath-filled cell. Not all
asleep. Each sleep
interlocks with the next: is this
what the dawn reveller shouts out against?

Our dreams are
London's underworld, our murmurs form
the backing for one wren
that crowns itself and the dawn with a song
repeated, repeated: echoed
distantly by another.

by Fiona MOORE, in "The POETRY REVIEW", Volume 104:2, Summer 2014