The summer of our lives

And though the embers of July
But twinkle faintly in the grate,
Dwell not upon fine days gone by,
Nor dreams that brushed the iron gate,
And do not fear chill winds are nigh
And stormy tempests lie in wait,
Because the sun in wave-lapped sky
Tacks tiredly through a rougher strait.

For though the river heaves a sigh,
No longer gushing in full spate,
‘Tis certain it does not run dry,
But rather swells with mounting weight.
And listen well to those on high,
Who scan the skies from lofty crate –
‘Tis far too soon for human eye
To spot the ocean’s vast estate.

To August now, let winged thoughts fly,
To golden sands that lie sedate,
And lazy gulls that swoop and cry
And dare to mock the tread of fate,
And blazing towels on which to lie
And pause for breath, rejuvenate,
Before autumnal gusts apply
A twinge or two to summer’s gait.