The swirls of heavy scented dew drops,
Danced and played, revering down the glass panes.
Echoing the emeralds, of etched ecstasy,
Flashed in blossoming British gardens.

It was early morning,
The newspaper yet to be delivered,
But late enough that the milk bottles stood, organised,
Shoulder to shoulder in a 2x2 formation of solidarity.

A blood orange tinge burned the sky,
Between the spital dashes of grey clouds,
the blackbird soared and sang,
and oh how it found sanctuary amongst the buckthorn brush