Through browned aphid's pinhole leaf, last summer's glazed and autumn granted. Rust's the oxygenate eye of steel, time's picking in sporadic stamp. As the rust flame belched a second's gap, in wool, surrendered as Crusaders' smocks to centuries. Notched, the nickel pin-flare of the gun, woke from a steel dream.
Eyes clinch black in diaphragm, pupils blear in light's quick measure home.
I sang that once' - unctious to the winner, 'in so many English places, and nice acoustic halls' A younger judge, bespectacled, and in despair, furrows his untimely baldness with his clothes, dampening bel cantos with intelligence. In due course he is opposed. We sometimes bend performers, rules, certificates - ample and awarded to this end. This summer's a dead heat for nostalgia. But the place I made a quarter century in had its teeth cut in Regency, hollowed and gone lushing its cropped spite till it yellowed gently.