Triple Time

This empty street, this sky to blandness scoured, This air, a little indistinct with autumn Like a reflection, constitute the present -- A time traditionally soured, A time unrecommended by event. But equally they make up something else: This is the furthest future childhood saw Between long houses, under travelling skies, Heard in contending bells -- An air lambent with adult enterprise, And on another day will be the past, A valley cropped by fat neglected chances That we insensately forbore to fleece. On this we blame our last Threadbare perspectives, seasonal decrease.