Have you and I really tasted
The last of our summer wine?
And are the only years left now
To be spent avoiding the pain of age?
You have seen how it is
With a dowager friend or two we know.
The wrinkled brow you kissed
To make it feel better creaked
With a wildly imagined flu and what not.
When in all the fact
Is sadder than a child’s stillbirth.
The evening’s long now and so
The sap rises, the weather’s fine
But we can’t taste the summer wine.
(P. S. Summer wine is of course a kenning a label substituted physical passion)
-Greta M. Pennington Rana