I was on my twelfth mow of the season this past Friday when my trusty old riding mower hit one rock too many and suffered an injury that will require a trip to mower repair shop. The good news is that the growth of the grass is slowing. As one who has spent the spring and summer trying to keep up with the rampaging grass, I know that is slowing. Summer is ending.
The leaves, of course, are beginning to drift down from the treetops. Some of the fallen are still green, and others are brown. And each morning when I step out the back door just before daylight to release and feed the chickens, I notice that the air has a bit more of a chill. Autumn approaches.
To mark this subtle change of the seasons, I have selected a poem by the late British poet, Vernon Scannell, with the appropriate title, "The Day that Summer Died." Scannell celebrates the end of the summer season as many of us would the passing of a friend - with a funeral service.
The Day that Summer Died
by Vernon Scannell
From all around the mourners came
The day that Summer died,
From hill and valley, field and wood
And lane and mountainside.
They did not come in funeral black
But every mourner chose
Gorgeous colours or soft shades
Of russet, yellow, rose.
Horse chestnut, oak and sycamore
Wore robes of gold and red;
The rowan sported scarlet beads;
No bitter tears were shed.
Although at dusk the mourners heard,
As a small wind softly sighed,
A touch of sadness in the air
The day that Summer died.