Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

We are now at one of the points of the year during which ol’ Robbo’s morning and evening commutes start right before dawn and just at the end of dusk.  As I head east in the morning and west in the evening, and as we’ve been treated to a stretch of fine weather recently, I have been savoring some absolutely lovely skies.  And although I still get up and get home in the dark, I am heartened by this foreshadowing of the end of that part of the commuting year that I refer to as the Time of the Mole People.

Unfortunately, because I tend to read books not of an especially improving nature, the vista has been bringing to mind this poem by Plum Wodehouse:

Caliban at Sunset*

I stood with a man
Watching the sun go down.
The air was full of murmurous summer scents
And a brave breeze sang like a bugle
From a sky that smouldered in the west,
A sky of crimson, amethyst, gold and sepia
And blue as blue were the eyes of Helen
When she sat
Gazing from some high tower in Ilium
Upon the Grecian tents darkling below.

And he,
This man who stood beside me,
Gaped like some dull, half-witted animal
And said,
“I say,
Doesn’t that sunset remind you
Of a slice
Of underdone roast beef?”

*From Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit, in which a side-whiskered poetical bloke called Percy Gorringe recites it to Bertie, although I can think of at least two other places off the top of my head where Plum uses the sunset/roast beef gag.   The poem’s title always makes me snicker in particular.

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