Hampstead Heath

A poem inspired by a walk on Hampstead Heath [06.08.2021]

Golden hues reign over the dew-endeared grounds

Of Hampstead Heath.

The threat of rain knocks,

Like a ghostly hand

Grasping Lockwood -

Lamenting the departed Catherine Linton.

The sun lays dying.

Descending clouds are welcomed below

In the Hell of Hieronymus Bosch -

Bypassing the garden of earthly delights

And sparing souls a summer storm.

Meanwhile,

This sprinkling saviour

Incites excitement in Pandemonium;

Milton’s potion.

The inferno

Below.

From alcoves in the Heath’s pergola,

Elves, imps, nymphs and sprites appear.

They, the devilish descendants of dreams –

Evanescent echoes of fallen angels,

Are the persons of a paradise lost.

Wildflower meadows climb towards

The corn harvest sun -

Singing in the rain

Through wind-bruised pain.

A Blackcap and Bullfinch whisper to one another,

Under the surveillance of Black-eyed Susan -

Soon to be woven into gold

By the infamous imp,

Rumpelstiltskin.

The wheel will continue to spin

In the underbelly

Of Hampstead Heath.

He wanders the Heath in pearly twilight,

Inviting the ghosts of

The Brothers Grimm

To ghastly, gastronomical delights.

Coffee here is dusted in cinnamon –

Cinders of the crucifix.

The seductive spices

Summon strollers

Into temptation.

Caffeine is the cure,

The lure,

Into fictitious stories

Of dreamed debauchery

With Dorian Gray.

Into a world of beastly beauty,

He beckons us into 

The haunted Heath.