Saturday 23 June 2018

Requiem for Summer By Ann Power

Is this the last summer

Never again to hold

The expectant morning between my hands

Sure, as in childhood, of the strength of noon?

I woke in the night,

And turning to you for comfort,

Suddenly heard,

The echoing dead, the marchers,

Remembered again,

The flame-spirals, vicious,

In a summer lane;

Turning to you for comfort,

Remembered that you were gone.

The soft mist, deluded, hangs in the valley,

Promising meadow-sweet, blackbirds and sun.

But the fields lie waste. We are children no longer

And summer is done.

Sunday Independent

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