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.  

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