The river slapped against the dock,
unpleasantly,
incessantly.

We stood under the bridge
where Walworth once
had Tyler’s head displayed.
A revolt betrayed
by a misplaced faith in kings.

It’s not enough, she said,
to pull men from the river.
We must also go upstream
to see who pushed them in.

Upstream, the palace,
its sunlit terraces,
its privileged view.
We knew.
As Tyler before us knew too.