Chandeliers spilt; a morning sparkle; an air of morning after, of drunkenly flung.
Spider-webs' irregular geometry strings the hedges, celebratory.
It is a feast of fruit fatted flies for them, a larder of sugar buzz wasps; wrapped parcels hang from diamond lines.
Abundant autumn, busy, glutted.
Through silk-sticky marvels walk home, squinting in the lit up mist.
A feast of toast for us.
The jam was over-boiled, it spoons out like sweets, rounded and night-coloured.