The hollow hills return their travellers
Lost and out of time
On the unsubstantial streets.
The boy panhandling on Yonge
Has no shadow, and will live forever.
Seven crows are silent among the pigeons in the square;
In the haven of the Spit, a white ship, un-noticed,
Waits to sail west.
In the dreamt city the riff-raff are
The guards at the gates of faerie;
Are the rockfall that hides the easter caves,
The glamour that obscures the grail.