Summer passes.
The breeze, empty of honeysuckle
claps through arbutus and maple leaves,
rises and falls among the willow.
No longer is there the mundane crescendo of the honey-bee
nor the rasp of crickets or cicadas,
echoing from overgrown bramble bush.
Feathery dandelions dance in the breeze,
children shout and run, chasing butterflies.
as summer is passing—
and children won’t let go.
In dark lakes and moors, ringed with oak and willow,
the swallow and skylark stop and listen
to the first drizzle of rain.
The air laced with juniper.
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