You do not have to be Alan Moore, Iain Sincair or Will Self to get the power that resonates behind some London place names. The Limehouse Cut is what it says – a brutal cut on landscape, a carved gash in the East London clay infected with industrial dirt. If there was a dream dictionary based on the geography of London, to dream of the Limehouse Cut would be to dream of danger, ill health and things falling apart.
Therefore to dream of walking the towpath of the Limehouse Cut to Bow Cemetery cannot ever be considered a comforting journey. This is especially true when you are walking at night, the cemetery displaying not its modern park aspect, but the fierce terror the boneyard forest. Once there, I was called before a parliament of crows, questioned on what I knew about plots by the conspiracy of ravens at the Tower of London.
After that part of the dream, the signal to noise problem with memory cuts in. I can no longer tell clearly what is remembered and what is imagined. However, I will happily take a third-rate blast of Poe in my nocturnal visions over the usual shouting and cordite fare of my nightmares.