To savour such a time,
There are few other ways,
Than with the smuggest Sun,
And all the world in books.

Cooking past the lengthy day,
In busyness the time astray,
I chatter to keep pause away,
To see what others have say.

I hear a snigger sniffled on the midnight dust,
A fuel for hilarity to make your lungs as pufferfish,
Expanding in great trembled puffs,
A heave and wheeze in quiet dimly rooms,
To spike the walls with gladdened sound.

Tiles sit sunken in their earthen thrones,
Marbled and mottled with spots of yellow and faded greys like elderly skin,
Beyond the grass bristles,
Youthful in the roaring wind,
And the world falls silent to the deafening whistle of the afternoon breeze,
And in the face of ceaseless squall the grass is greener in my sight,
And the quiet chatter merges with the birdsong,
All fades into the recesses of the soundscape,
And the moment seems to stretch on contentedly.