British Summer Time

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That last pretence of summer –
slanting sunlight, and the air
settling into velvet – has gone.

Street lamps stutter
pour their pools of steely light
and photoflash each passing face
before it fades in shadow.

We turn back the clocks
enjoying, for a moment, the conceit
that we can turn back time,
control that slippery, elusive hour
which we have lost
or maybe not yet lived.

 

Try another poem here “Angry German dents car with giant sausage” – The Times

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