Poe’s ghosts dance around the trees
We reach the other side of Hampstead Heath, what some call the Spaniards, after the pub on Spaniards Road. The sky is the colour of a used tea bag, and this renders the landscape a sad shade of beige.
We like it better here. It’s quieter than on the “proper” footfall-heavy Heath. Occasionally, mountain bike riders, dog walkers, and runners break the silence, but overall the only company is Poe’s “vast forms that move fantastically/to a discordant melody”.
The trees complement the sense of otherworldliness. Around their trunks gather the “spirits moving musically/to a lute’s well-tunèd law”.
We sit down and open the book we’ve brought to read together. Our voices join those of Poe’s ghosts across the centuries.
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