Scorching at noon,
as clouds allow
is the how
of this Autumn onset,
summer's extension,
basking patio.
A fly sits on
Auden's 'Forty Years On',
cleaning it's mobilities,
quiet company; yet
I find sleep tug
at the waving rug
of engine sounds,
jet grumble-snores -
mind sunk to coffee grounds...
his slump the more is...
................
The last line is a sleepy echo of John Bunyan's 'To Be A Pilgrim'
'Whoso beset him round
with dismal stories,
do but themselves confound;
his strength the more is.'
It creeps in due to the mores of short line form and rhyme - to represent surreal semi-consciousness, after Joyce etc.
