Summer {An original poem}

Summer

She is stricken, the lusty maiden,
Yet scant symptoms:
A hint of shadow beneath bright eyes,
A subtly deflated stride.

By her labour we feast:
Fruit, grain, roast and wine.
Fattening as she fades;
Revelling in her name and
Drunkenly denying her inevitable demise.

Too soon must we mourn:
Sorrow in lengthening shadows
And in goose-bumped arms and
In leaves driven down by the wind and the rain;
Yet occasional solace, we find,
In the golden crisp of a clear autumn day.

Now we plod our drizzly, muddy boot way
With her spark smouldering warm in our hearts:
Thoughts of her bouncing locks and twirling laugh.
A vision to push back dark, low clouds
That creep and threaten to smother.

For she always returns, like a spell,
Our lusty maiden.