Out at last, from the yeast stench,

from the bar on a summers day.

Into the city, the scorch of the heat,

reflected by the concrete warming my reddening skin

 

A short window-shopping walk with an informative friend.

Looking at material things,

It's so easy to forget worries.

But a suggested walk through memories,

Leads to an unknown view.

 

Fly's blur the view through the gate,

and hasten our pace to pass them.

Into a hidden woodland wonder,

obscured by buildings and consecration,

stepping on old marks of memory,

we may yet talk to the dead.

 

Solemn, looking at gravestones,

remarking at their age,

pondering over their names,

and secretly wondering who they were,

interesting relatives who speak to me in stone cold words.

 

At last to the high Harrow view,

with it's graphitied bronze map,

next to the grave of a poets friend,

barricaded to prevent inspiration.

 

An iron grave jail.

An unseen poem.

 

The hill speaks in many ways.

[Back]