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Snow Hill
Mark Sanderson
In memory of Drew Morgan (1964-1994)
Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow,
And bear their trophies with them as they go:
Filths of all hues and odour, seem to tell
What street they sail’d from, by their sight and smell.
They, as each torrent drives, with rapid force,
From Smithfield to St ’Pulchre’s shape their course;
And in huge confluence join’d at Snow Hill ridge,
Fall from the conduit prone to Holborn Bridge,
Sweepings from butchers’ stalls, dung, guts and blood,
Drown’d puppies, stinking sprats, all drenched in mud,
Dead cats and turnip-tops come tumbling down the flood…
From A Description of a City Shower
Jonathan Swift, October 1710
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