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