Hampstead Heath,
early early Monday morning

the grey baby gap hat with
yellow planes
on
either side
hangs
on a fallen tree post

a few paces up
a Baby Blue teething ring lies open
face up crying for
a mouth,
perhaps, hers? my charlotte?

the Heath absorbs all
dogs,
their masters
the frost; the sun, an ale can, from, perhaps,
Keats’ and his night of drinking when he
wrote
‘that I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
/and with thee fade away into the forest dim:’

fade, fade my Heath, fade

me