Seasons: intermezzo

A tapestry winged moth circles the lamp
Mistaking it for the limpid moon
I play a dazzling Scarlatti fugue
Scattering arpeggios into the autumn night
A glass of chilled prosecco bubbles noiselessly
On the oölitic balustrade
Soon the septentrional gales will
Sweep in and blast us towards All Saints
Until then let us smile in St Luke's summer
And bare our legs a few days more