Become so coglike in the evening blue,
Devising all my ways and so submit,
Mach'nations that I'll sole approximate,
But one must think in systems if at all,
And I do like to think. So there my plans.

The golden silk upon the air,
Streams endless through a painted glass,
The world in sight is muffled in a breath,
Tired evening purged of raving farce,
The work is done.

The morning sky is blue grey,
Washed out and fuming vapours through its teeth,
It bears them in a contradicting grin,
Down to the rolling clouds below,
Puffs that make the air blue grey and close,
The dew slick grass and open concrete,
Gaze up upon their vaporous host,
And bid him wind when mid morning close,
When mid morning toss his anger with a burst of light,
Vapour clears - the sky more blue less grey.

The late night weeta-milk swirls unsteady in my lap,
It nibbles at the weetabix islands - ravenous,
A little sustenance for a hungry boy,
A little late for a normal day.