To me, love’s like an English summer,
with teasing spells of loving sun
and only then to, swiftly so,
fall beneath the growing shadow.
Then, from the dismal pelt of rain
that not so much as lightning yields,
comes forth a rookie, eyes ablaze.
But pride won’t dam the falling waves.
And soon cats hiss, dogs bark and howl
as all descend toward the ground
to douse and drown the rookie’s flame.
That torch he held was held in vain.
The monotone of summer rain
makes day by day the same mundane.
Before we know it, swiftly so,
we’re left knee deep in winter’s snow.
Yet come the darkness, we’ll remember
the beauty of our English summer.
Shadows pass, as lovers will,
‘tis but the sun that’s loyal still.