September and praying away the ringlight glare of summer O unmaking of me, o rictus 

of fume The midjourney plasticity of the hot city retreats, now the creeping saint of 

the new season claws at the space under the door But today is a camera mounted on 

a falling object, so the world turns around it, fulcrum of happiness, cockle-sweet after 

the jumperless days in which my callousness has surprised me A week of stunning heat, 

then the weather breaks over the coast like the feeling returning to a limb, the first drops 

hitting the asphalt of England The offshore windfarm is a distant Avalon, greyed with 

grape-bloom horizon and a peace so complete descends that no question troubles 

me, not even how long will you love me, not even how many days like this do we have 

left to us.