at half past four
   the farthest moor
ran blood red
   with sinking sun

early gathered guttered leaves
   catching hint of winters breath
   decorously quiver
in the lingered still of dusk

while in one hundred kitchens
   baked beans simmer
beneath the steam-whistle of transition
   from the polarities of the classroom
   to the less defined contests of the home

this samian splendid seeping sun
   curls in upon us
like the crabs we chased laughing
in the shallow pools of summer