On Highgate Hill

The spires and the domes,

The gables and rooftops,

The dense bare branches,

High on the horizon,

Cumulatively speak

Cathedral like mystery

As half apprehended

By lunatic Ruskin

When writing in praise

Of the magic of turrets.


On Suicide Bridge,

Dark clouds bode darkness

Above the black dolphin,

Glistening raindrops in the shafts of

Evening sunlight, with kindly old

Nereus, many times witness of

Madness and utter despair.