A Cooking Egg

Old Pond in green fields lock against the air, yellow dusk met with silver pale, each blade addings of streaked pastels.

Has houses built themselves of tide water and in invite an interpretation. Cantilevered mood blighted light, a tree-moon may collect in courting sun.

And the gust of rest places rhythm, measured in grains. And pull of light, grounds the past, waning protest, unplumbed depths thee, we are vanishing into dust

• TS Eliot