From Lowlife to Highgate

The brown hill of boredom

stretches into the unknown evening,

and the rain beats the paths

towards its slippery, dull calvary.

 

Up on the blasted Heath

the rich keep fit for Armageddon,

while darkness falls over London

and wetness on the world.

 

Again in April I append:

“A year is gone and gain is none.

Alight with hope I’m often found,

but Jack O’Lantern’s skills abound.

 

The night’s a hearth,

the Moon its fire, and we,

poor feral creatures,

merely kindling”.

 

It’s an English sensibility,

summoned by rain,

taking me up the hill to

look out over London.

 

Its ancient imprecations lie before me,

from Harrow and Wealdstone

via Gospel Oak to Gravesend, which

Dictionary of English Place Names makes me see

what castles and cathedrals cannot hide:

the ghost is a Lord until we lay it.

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