Ornithogalum Dubium

Lame again, I limp home along Lawn Terrace with a flowering sun star in a paper wrap then back to the village with a lame cat twisting and woeful in her cage. Bread these days isn't baked to last: how sad those posh loaves thudding off in pine breadbins all around the Heath: soulless latterday pets, frisky for a day or two, then binned or thrown to foxes, loaves just an inch of gloom below the caged birds you notice in corners of those same mansions when you seek the past, dinking their mirrors, dipping once in a while for a sip of milk.