It's their shapes, fan palms, monkey puzzles, the rich
greens, the Highgate Hill of them, fresh leaves hiding
fin de siècle gables, overhanging goggled motorists,
a plaid lapelled entrepreneur, waist coated Chief Clerk
smiling up through branches, the bright jade light, then
downhill, east, trees knuckled, dry, council-pollarded,
coalman bending sacks on his shoulder over a doorstep
chute, below, a boy standing on the settling coal, cellar
blurred by dust, running out to a horse pulling a carted
carousel, rides for jam jars, shrimps and winkles from
a barrow. The mother - apple of a street bookie's eye -
a daily herring and bowl of tea seamstress sewing
leg of mutton sleeves, lining merry widow hats,
her son playing in a sandpit, looking up; a veranda
glimpsed on the hill, mullioned windows reflecting
the sun, high chimneys, a sunlit, jacketed shoulder
on a camomile lawn, and the splendour'd trees.