HIGHGATE HILL
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
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.