Her rose sways, lifts from where she dropped it, / Enlarges, floats as though ripples propped it; / While visibly as on chill air breathing / Fragrance transforms to a rosy mist; / Which halo-sphere befilms with wreathing / Trails of pink and amethyst.
The Storm is coming, say the conspiracy theorisers whose grotesque imaginings terrified the country to attention this week. Maybe they're right.
Brad finished sixteenth in the individual pursuit and then a wonderful fourth in the points race behind the man who would one day be his road captain at Team Sky, Mick Rogers.
COME, Wat; be yare* with thy dues, man, and do na keep me waiting, or I shall be late to nonemeat.†
*Ready. †An afternoon meal.
