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(Sorry for yet another, but these are fun to do) It should be a garden, or a message saying Wilkommen, this place, but instead it thrives with shadows, bustling their populace. Breathe, breather, and try to believe. Could describe the swanscalm, them smooth on the water, or too the moorhens, their croaky insistence, or for that matter the bread, (like cotton, all flaky, and white) a hand, must be mine, has flung it to their dependence. It is no garden, nor do huge pinions, the fallen eyed's, beat over it. Begone from the scenario, thou darkwinged. It is the canalside, the Mile Straight they call it, in Lear's Ruins, that's Leicester, on a close afternoon called Wednesday, at now that is the time, where a hand again (I know it) touches down , feel, the sure soil of it, the what can be stood on, Earth. Breathe. Best Dave