Under green summer willows my family walked,
Avoiding the shadows of serious talk.
As a child, without care, I ran on ahead,
Chasing the sunlight, alarming the swans,
Watching the ripples that spread from the banks,
I took all for granted, when time was my friend.
Now, by the Avon, I wander alone.
Clear in the knowledge that everything ends.
Now I find comfort in rivers and ghosts.
While plague after plague swept through the city
Winnowing lives, like corn, without pity,
The gallows stood close, the axe was not dulled,
While I, by the peace of Avon was lulled.
The play is the thing, all life is a play.
Three days and nights on horse-back away,
All journeys end in true lovers greeting.
Where the bee sucks our pleasures were fleeting,
Violets, eglantine, sweet summer wine,
Came with their season and then he was mine.
Spring time is gone, winter’s cold, he is dead.
I dream in the depths of our second best bed.
Seasons keep turning, so little remains
but words from sweet Will, who wont come again.
napowrimodreamingpath 