CANDLELIGHT IN BLACK
The ghosts are marmalade
thin as rinds across toast
or the Weeping Willow, whose
green beard leans,
crane-like, into a child's
backyard.
A Morning Cloak butterfly,
maroon wet with the paint
of morning, cat paws
thin filament leaves
astride a larder
of memories.
Dalliance with the past,
smoke grey these architects
of memory
the privet hedge,
lone pine tree,
jet black caterpillar
poised about a green
carrot top trigger
laced in emperor's gold
like fathoms of the sea
held ... in quiet repose.
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HIGHGATE
Angel Inn,
come off a sign
blown sideways
in the sugar and ices
night.
Old St. Joseph's
Cathedral, bottom
of the hill, here
Andrew Marvell
of "coy mistress"
fame sports a plaque
remembering "time's
winged chariot" and
farther (further!) up
a quaint pub gives accolades
(Kudos, too) to the fact, 1666
nefariously was the plague year
in London--Parliament Hill,
a brief arm stretch away,
posited strangled chickens
and other assorted heirlooms
in vain attempt for poesy
to thwart poxy.
A stone's throw
off in Hampstead Heath
guns (Big Berthas) could
be heard from the Somme,
German dirigibles dropped
incendiaries, the wounded entrained
at Charing Cross and a rascallion
(John Keats by name) drained
a draught at Jack Straw's
Castle near the Spaniards
while Turpin's hanged corpse
was soon to resemble good
English oaker casks
at the Flask.
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