A yard high in the English measure: it's limestone plinth remains intact. The ornamental base, is covered by dandelions and rye grass. Weathered-- it spirals, slowly upward through figures, that no doubt were cherubs; but now are faceless amputees, who strain to touch a fleur-de-lis.. Above this controversial flower, a brass plane forms the business end of a medieval instrument. Whose style is set to point the hour, through ancient Roman numerals and Latin text in cursive swirls. But verdigris and green patina have long since furred the numerals. And though it was etched in quite deeply, the adage is illegible. For generations of bird spatter, have left a kind of concrete matter that seems immune to nature's wrath-- and no one ever cleans it off. The silent hall is left to ruin: It's shrubs and lawns long overgrown, for all the tenders have long gone. Yet shadows from the style, keep moving through time-- still measured in a way that's just as short as time today.
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