In a moorland village
Chocolate and beige
Monsoon purple stripes
In the style of Rothko
Yet antlers above the fire
Mostly they are young
The staff that is, as befits
This swipe at modernism
But neither youth nor
This extravagant whim
Are in truth sustainable
The numbers don't add up
I sit alone in a tabled room
Set out for forty-four covers
It might be different
Come Saturday night
But the farmers hereabouts
Know that one swallow
Does not a summer make
More's then the pity
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