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 future furthest 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 up by fat neglected chances
that we insensately forbore to fleece.
on this we blame our last
threadbare perspectives, seasonal decrease.
-- philip larkin, 'triple time'
-- michelle tea, the chelsea whistle
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