The breeze favoured me on Turnham Green
Urging me Brentford-ward long before
The bus arrived. Air had a silver sheen
Like the gleaming bark the birch trees wore
In a garden along the road I’d seen.
Strange comparisons come when impressions love transmutes…
The subject is silver… later I will lean
Over a dear head the silver coloured roots
And kiss the dear brow I love to make serene.