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July

Above a rushy meadow in early July
The little mottled brown skylark does sing as he fly
A musical speck in the blue and gray sky
Of human kind one who will always be shy

On my flights of fancy the sweet scent of grass mowed for silage or hay
Is wafting in the wind of a nice Summer's day
Across the old fields looking resplendent in their Summer flowers
Looking lush and green after recent thundery showers

Memories of beauty that lives through the decades of time
Of changeable July when the northern Summer is in her prime
At mid morning the grass wet from overnight rain
Though the sun glowing with warmth is shining again

For to feed their young in their nest on shed rafters nearby
The dark barn swallows chase flying insects in the sky
By October they will have migrated far south
Of the fields of the rook and the streams of the brown trout

Time that does not wait for anyone did not wait for me
Though i retain the good memories of the what used to be
Like the sweet scent of grass mowed for silage or hay
In the Summer meadows of July far away.

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