The muffled-knock of high blown summer, <br />upon the leaves and grasses August since June, <br />wrap tightly like bundled flowers, <br />around the jaundiced seasoned air. <br /> <br />Shaken and solemn the church bells, <br />under a single sky of coming morn <br />lonesome, turn the clay-dark hands of time, <br />while ill-winds blow in gathering storm. <br /> <br />Then in some faraway land, a shot, <br />far from Englands shore, <br />under a red scorched earth and bitter sun <br />an August summer forever gone.<br /><br />John Scully<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-summer-s-end-august-1914/
