Do you remember summer? It happened long ago
When Wealden hills gleamed green and pink, untainted by the snow.
 
The days flowed on like rivers carving a languid path
From shy blue beginnings to their golden epitaph.
 
Cheeks blushing with cherries, among dappled roots we lay
Sugar stained, unbound by time, the world was ours to play.
 
A small uncertain hand crept out, searching for a sign,
Searching through long grasses for the touch it knew was mine.
 
Amidst the scent of hopeful vines whispering of wine,
Awash in a froth of cow parsley, two hands became entwined.
 
But summers’ spell is finite, burning bright against the past,
And the sweetness of its stolen fruits is destined not to last.
 
Autumn claims the harvest and Jack Frost takes the rest,
Now winter’s hoary shawl lies heavy on my chest.
 
The lands are dusty white, their colours captured by the night,
No hands are spared for holding but hardened for a fight.
 
Yet my calloused palms still long for that hand I know,
A hand I know from long ago, when it was summer, long ago.