I turned lightly as a pivoting flower
on a new fold of breeze; a purple sash
half-hidden in the blue, whose continuous
curls lay faintly voyaged in the clouds,
engaged a high celestial order
in the bishopric of a spire; a Welsh
choir of trees in whispering lilt! -- broken by
the taunt from the exposed hidden blackbird!
Till, one by one, the children disappeared;
till in that drained light not a living thing
pulled a leaf other than how the breeze
pulls leaves; and I had passed on too, walking
to where the street-corner pub breathed in pink
and yellow light: walking, and passing on.