It was summer – On the lake hung a golden haze, It was summer - It was one of those endless days, So we walked thru a field of clover And then over A sheep-spun hill And it seemed it would last for ever And it did - until Came the evening, We swung on a garden gate, It was heaven, You were seven and I was eight, And we watched the stars suspended, Walking home down an apple lane, Me and Rosie, a doll, a daisy chain, On an evening that would never come again. Spike Milligan Could there be a better example of a perfect summer’s day? I’m not sure. It sounds idyllic. I turned forty-four last week, and I still have days like these. Long days out over several tops, far from sight of home. Blue skies above green hills, a warm air and an energy that will take you for miles. And in the evening, a daydream pace back through the valley floor. The daisy chain may have gone and in truth gates are no longer swung upon, but rather opened and carefully closed. The stars suspended, viewed from a beer garden, as I sit admiring the silhouette of the Buttermere fells perhaps, not wanting to surrender the day and head indoors. Sitting quietly savouring every last drop of an evening that would never come again. Mark
Posted on: Tue, 24 Jun 2014 05:56:17 +0000
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