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,
The echoing dead, the marchers,
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.