Through a Glass   Old glass was spun in circles, and we’ve fathomed only after centuries the blower’s thickened edges   blur a blued and pocked window pane; but Pilkington’s float-glass hasn’t mystery, just industrial perfection   uniform, mundane. So when I glance out at new-fledged chicks, grappling for balance in the creamy   hawthorn hedge, I don’t lose them through a misted whorl storm but from a quick prod by time.   Outside, though, in raw blossom scent, an ancient rite awaits me still, in the feathery scruffs’   edgy session, of dust ruffles tail-tips, apprentice trills. This stolen…