When Keats met Coleridge
here in Millfield Lane
hard by the next pond up from the Ladies' Pond,
did the Highgate sage feel death in the hand
he clasped and pity the promising, younger man?
Another April now I see the trees return
they might have seen, oak, sycamore, and stand
ravished by the giants' delicate flowers, on ground
where they stood talking under this fresh green.
New-burst from sticky buds, horse-chestnut leaves
droop like unfledged birds until they spread.
Rabbits. Cowslips in a sunny ditch:
like the poets, these still share our lives
as fellow Londoners, interconnected,
re-affecting, making each meeting rich.
Home | Dinah Livingstone: Presence