poets to come
on hampstead heath
on hampstead heath
twelve years
after
first standing
in that green
magnificence
twelve years
of rutted
goat tracks
on
the
serpentine
ridge
of
what will come
to be known
as the saddest
hardest
decade of the century
twelve years
of the scotch
& th bourbons
& th huguenots
& fire
& water
under the bridge
i amuse myself
finding exact
locations
of former
good times
amours—
time trips !
stoned
unguided tours
th sun still looks like
blake’s baby face
to me
the green / th green
star
‘ something the size of a guinea ’
that presages th host
singing holy holy holy . . .
yeah. th sky above &
the earth beneath
on hampstead heath
on hampstead heath . . .
there
in the dales / & vales
gainsborough is snoring
& hogarth & turner
& pale cockney johnny / albion’s seed /
waiting to be born / hark !
what is this late sound breaking
on the ear ?
th city bells
from far
off
chime
& th village bells from near
it is th dead centre
of th year
midsummer’s eve—
&
i am stricken
slowly
if such a thing might be
thinking of the great
unborn
who are not here
leaning on th bells
that break
on every ear
looking on th heath
& sky
pondering those novel
bards
who were
& did
but are not here / waiting to be born
hark ! as on th cool
romantic glow
of sunset
now
i hear
the sanskrit tongue of bagpipes &
the haunted gold
of one
french horn . . .
here’s to th green ; the unborn !
th poets are coming !
( like always )
here’s to th green ! here’s to th year !
th poets are coming ! They’re almost here !
©David Mitchell
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