That dreamy English blue,
Lines each suburban palisade,
Plays gently with the view,
With tickled petals so delayed,
To see the colours through.

Polling friends,
Sprinkling a tiny bit of wit,
To brighten mundane enquiry,
In quest the day of bestest fit.

Seventeen sum three,
Four units fallen short,
These balanced plates on plates,
Lean loud and scrape a shrill,
Up at the height of twenty four,

Alas
they
crash.

They tumble to the gates of time,
"Wait four times" the mighty clock decreed,
"You grow like pretty flowers by the stream,
It shan't be long to stand amongst the trees!"

Reflective orbs cascade down like a myriad of miniature marbles,
They hit the pan and comingle with the oil,
The world seems to stutter for a moment,
And suddenly, a serpentine hiss rises from the metal,
Dull fireworks spray out at the reptilian call,
And the oil seems to growl over the surface of the pan,
Seems hot enough.