There is such beauty in a summer’s shade,
see how trees grow through each other’s limbs,
the sky comes near,
a thousand shaking leaves make music,
and we upon our bench below close eyes to better hear.
Composing and decomposing,
unlike music carries from a schoolboy’s goal three fields away,
a passing car’s low-thumping notes,
both but the half-heard beating pulse and ground,
for music filtering from tree-tops’ play.
Leafy shadows fold us in their pliant dark,
the generations’ oak and ash all lean,
and when a braid of childhood sounds is heard, of play and song,
familiar scenes appear,
those once known come to haunt our leafy shade.
We sit for long,
we muse upon a parent, our own nature as a child,
our need from the beginning to love one work,
the friends and chance we took,
in the music of these woods memories combine and fade.
Once we praised the safety of our cloudless days,
could afford regret for darker skies,
but if the door to innocence was closed too soon,
we’ve heard with wondering heart old tunes of summer’s shade,
pondered that which never dies.