TITLE: Summer of our Years
By Yvonne Osborne
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Around the mossed eaves runs the grey old stone,
Weathered in years, storm-torn, tumbling down,
Crumpled now, flint walls that once were home,
Glint through Summer’s wild rose wedding gown.
Flax and fox-glove spread o’er earthen floors,
Where nature’s forest children often stray,
And pink and purple heather of the moors
Swell the banks where other children play.
The plover and the skylark swoop for joy,
No tangled path to interrupt their flight,
Just as we as little girl and boy
Ran headlong into dewy morning light.
The ivy, rampant in her dappled climb,
Spirals by the thorns and tangled briars,
By lichen tree and rock and celandine,
And into fullness unto distant spires.
The waterfalls, their brave-winged droplets bear,
Tumbling into laughter’s joyous tears,
As if no time had passed since we were there,
Oh sweet rejoicing summer of our years.
Where the wild flowers weave embroidered fields,
Just when the glorious day seemed done,
Heaven bursts her fiery brink as evening yields,
And softens nightly shade where mossed eaves run.
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