The longest day
doesn’t feel much longer;
tomorrow’s glass misting
with breath of winter
yet summer
will go on idling
in stifling weeks,
before days splinter
into chilly autumn’s
waking veil;
November, a damp
and choking dog
but even then
some new love
might emerge
from thicker fog
The longest day,
a warbling flute
above the wild
uncut grass
it never fades,
this dream
of finding
the perfect lass
it never goes,
even as we take
the invisible,
darker way
it happens
always the same,
each measured year
each longest day
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Paul, a nice piece with some good invention.10/10 Regards, Dilwyn