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 crazy John 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, and kindly old
Nereus, regular witness to
Sorrow and madness and acts of despair.

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