Parliament Hill
A poem
The bench shakes, sirens shriek out,
And lull me into waking,
Taking in the light-lifted greens shimmering.
People chatting, overground trundling,
Chattering to Hampstead Heath Station.
The ground quakes, as I
From planes, and planes of field
And the city lights light the evening feel.
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I glimpse my last upon the city beneath.
The eye, the shard, the foggy soot.
The terraced roofs under the metal clung.
Above the dusk clings the inky sun.
Beyond the sun, I know the moon,
Against the sky, blue and grey,
It cuts clear the evening
This January day.
This January day, I looked at you.
I flicked the sun, and I plucked the moon
To watch brick melt
And walk heath lanes,
To do it over and over again.
For Hampstead Heath sketched the view.
It cut the shard and St. Pauls roof,
But it hadn’t the words that I have for you.
For you warrant some secluded expression,
An oath or pledge that streams forth in succession,
Outpouring not from mouth but mind,
Nor view of metal, but of mountains and tides.
Someday soon, I will find that view,
Perhaps someday too, I’ll have the words for you.
