As with those others, I’ll not help you.
Unpetalled, blank papyrus.
Brick bears beams bear rooftiles.
The stained-glass panes, that stretched to reach the heavens, shone.
Sunfire shines glist’ning through the scriptured glass to light the southern rose ‘n Yorkshire’s heart!
Bucolic ruins; gardens sloped – onward, t’ward streets cobbled!
A bird of prey, at hov’ring height, doth herald.
The sunfire breaks the emptied cloud to strike upon the waters.
The footfall flux meanders.
A plane; a swallow.
The Trow’s resuscitated – see the blackwhite gable draped along in hanging baskets.
The searsome sun seethes heathaze.