Hampstead

Halos punctuate the gloom -

Victorian lampposts recede into fog,

the stillness thickens.

Am I the street-ghost?

half-heard footfalls

disturbing silence?

The cold closes in,

shrouding Georgian Terraces,

Victorian Mansions.

Am I lost in time?

seeing gig-lamps corner the gloom

from a horse-drawn tilbury,

sensing the clop and snort

of a phantom phaeton.

Homeward from pub-snugs,

down Flask Walk, Willow Road,

each window's glowing recess

invites speculation.

Transient trespasser,

L'Etranger

skirting stuccoed facades;

more at one with the drear exterior

than those moneyed havens.

How the mystery of mist

unites the timeless dark.

Keats Grove - let me pause,

straining for silent nightingales.

Listen. Listen. Listen.