White Window's flagstones
are as palms  pressed against the sky, 
venous as tendrils the Garden relinquished,
we thus shiver beside the River Test's temerity.
How can Eve and her entourage partake wisdom,
against lost chances
forever careering on spoilt surfaces.
Solemnity  scorns the whittle
how can Earth then recoil,
faintly procrastinating 
on cold Sundays.