On the Milldown in July

In June the silver headed grasses danced,
dipping so graceful in every floating breeze,
and scattered careless through the rabbit-nibbled patch
were countless flowers of the poor chalk soil.
But now July has changed all that –
the taller grass is sere and brown,
stalks as stiff as sentinels;
and hard against a sunny sky,
the trees are darkly green.
The brightness now is berries,
orange, scarlet, green,
with promise of a bramble harvest soon to come
and oh swift sadness strikes
for autumn stalks the feet of summer,
and all must change.
And yet
I see promises.
Nothing stays the same,
or could or should,
for we are all, with this sweet world
becoming things,
growing, patterning our existence
with movement
which is itself a dance,
a reeling past of seasons of our souls,
and like the riches in the grass
or fruit that glows on trees,
are the treasures that are varying
as we grow on.