London's September draws on.
Its commuters criss-cross their way,
dancing the two-step on a concrete drive
past tablecloths of cotton-white, spotted
with circulars of damp from the champagne bottle
left sweating in its post-fridge state.
Little green olives that might be gems,
glisten subtly in a shy, pre-Autumn sun,
ignored by elegant hands and ruby lips
- pirated by the wasps.
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