Summertime, the day is long,

Swift and Swallow on the wing;

It is the land where I belong,

Of which the Harpers sing.


Trees cascading o’er the bower,

As Pheasant peck and roam;

Haze of heat engulfs the hour,

Here where I call home.


Tide in recess as rocks stand bare,

Fringe of seaweed on the shore;

A Tern gull hovering in the air,

Its eyes the waves explore.


Sailboat passing onward bound,

Slices through the wave;

In elegance it makes no sound,

Silent as the grave.


Life all around and not forlorn,

Warmth of Sun upon my back;

Amid stubble of the fresh cut corn,

Scavengers no grain to lack.


The farmer he has left the scene,

With produce and the straw;

Now the birds their fill do glean,

A canvas without flaw.



Monty Alexander 12.7.22

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