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England 1939
Summer grieved . . .
but stayed awhile to hide amidst the heather.
And, wind blown,
scurried to and fro along the lanes.
Mid-July . . .
and loth to leave . . .
sought solace in the freshening shower
playing o'erhead.
In fields,
that ripening corn did bless,
and meadows,
sweet with grass,
her song of life
. . . though quietened played
. . . gone the happiness.
Speak not of sadness.
For in that summer promised fair
a deeper song was playing.
High up amongst the branches of the oak
and down amongst the reeds,
a restless urge to leave
and start anew.
None of her sisters,
Winter, Autumn, Spring,
could help her in this time of mourn.
. . . for their's was not the time.
And in that England long ago . . .
weeping . . .
from the sadness in her heart,
with past and painful memories
. . . Summer stayed but briefly.
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