Nobody heard as Summer, quiet, slipped by.
Time ticked away without a noticing.
No one could hear her long and laboured sigh;
No joy evinced, as from expectant Spring.
Alone in countenancing her demise,
I looked for signs that she might linger on.
But hope had withered with the melon flower,
And one day I awoke, and she was gone.
How can it be that, in this hemisphere,
Mankind, so focused on its silly round,
Could not have seen the passing of the year,
And could not read the writing in the ground?
Wars threaten peace and in their ugly thrall,
We somehow missed the loveliest time of all.
© Ruth Twyman Lockyer August 2013