Cocooned in Time, at this inhuman height, The packaged food tastes neutrally of clay, We never seem to catch the running day But travel on in everlasting night With all the chic accoutrements of flight: Lotions and essences in neat array And yet another plastic cup and tray. "Thank you so much. Oh no, I`m quite all right". At home in Cornwall hurrying autumn skies Leave Bray Hill barren, Stepper jutting bare, And hold the moon above the sea-wet sand. The very last of late September dies In frosty silence and the hills declare How vast the sky is, looked at from the land.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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