Is masked th’moon’s cratered plight beyond the wisp-white atmosphere.
The grain is mismatched ‘cross the breaks.
Outside, upon the paved ‘n railing-ringed walk – sheltered – way, where Sunday patrons sit, the sun, through th’river’s auld reflection sings on th’wooden slats below the Cascade Steps.
A working title.
Blow gentlesoft, pandemic breeze, ‘breast an unop’n’d tomb.