by Chris Anderson

Coleridge at Greta Hall, on the hill
above the Keswick bridge,
scribbling all night in his notebooks
and dosing himself with laudanum.
He is trying to understand
the mystery of God.
And when he looks out the window
into the blackness, he sees the shelves
of books behind him reflected
in the glass, and yet the night sky, too,
shining before him,
seeming to gleam on the spines,
the books lettered
as it were     with stars


Photo by guille pozzi on Unsplash