This empty street, this sky to blandness scoured,
This air, a little indistinct with autumn
Like a reflection, constitute the present —
A time traditionally soured,
A time unrecommended by event.
 
But equally they make up something else:
This is the furthest future childhood saw
Between long houses, under travelling skies,
Heard in contending bells —
An air lambent with adult enterprise,
 
And on another day will be the past,
A valley cropped by fat neglected chances
That we insensately forbore to fleece.
On this we blame our last
Threadbare perspectives, seasonal decrease.

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Dave Hatchett
plus d'un an

Superb poem. Bit of a typographical muddle up on line 7 i think.

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