In summer, when the sun is high
And thoughts are turned to holiday.
When daylight lingers in the sky,
And darkness far has crept away.
A lethargy not felt before
Flows in like tides upon the shore.
When bright hues all the landscape fill,
We suffer a hypnotic spell;
In noonday heat the birds are still,
There is no message now to tell.
Siesta falls upon the land,
Its face expressionless and bland
But winter in its various moods
Applies the spur, makes pulses race;
The chill of snowy altitudes
Gives labour an inviting face;
And though the trees and birds are still,
The mind is working like a mill.
Weekly Times 11.8.61