O love, the sun is creeping.

Towards us, my love, may we heat our backs a while and dare the lilac to smell more sweet.

For lilac and heat transport me so to a sense of spring hidden deep by winters bring two glasses

as the sunlight thaws the past and lie down on the grass at the moon underwater. The moon underwater. O ye!

O yee and hither, hence and swain,

Heft and thither, betide thy sen.

And welcome to the moon underwater.

It is I, John Robbins, landlord,

of this fabled pub writ large in scriptures of yonder yore.

And the light, oh the light, I must talk of the light.

It has a quality to it that I can't quite put my finger on, but put my finger on I will try.

I'll keep pressing the light and thrusting my hand towards the sky as these willow trees do silhouette them send so much in the Rose Garden.

It's a delight to be here at the moon underwater.

And I have to say,

it's very interesting because the bar,

usually at this fabled pub,

is of oak or walnut or bark sometimes.

It's just sort of bark.

But tonight is marble.

And across from this marble slab, shining, shimmering, is the lovely Robin.

Hello, Robin.

Hi, John.

...