AtLast_[07]

Sleeveless toss Of dross and dredge To salted sands, Again. Unseemly Untimely

Unknowing. Ungrowing.

Of more fertile bent Artists draw on firmament, As vaulted skies Open torrents Tempestuously Spawned of dreams in ink and alabaster. Mosaic tales in tile,

Radiant craft Of masters.

Plasters - never slighted Vintage - never blighted." "Gavin." Earthy voice, of duty, called. Intone of habit Strained of shock "Gavin! Go! Attend thy flock!"

Then, suddenly, my phantoms stalled

My flock? Who?