Come walk with me between the barley and the maize
this silver evening in the hopeful month of June.
The summer’s all before us; we are rich in days.

Refreshed by rain, the quiet countryside displays
its laps and shadows to a primrose crescent moon
whose beauty we alone, it seems, are here to praise.

We crane our necks to seek a skylark in the haze
holding in failing light its undiminished tune.
It must be up there somewhere. It eludes our gaze.

How many silver evenings have we walked these ways
till dark, unwilling to make tracks for home too soon,
tonight’s young moon’s admirers in our later phase?

Too many now to count; and are we rich in days?
Our closest friends are dying. We are not immune.
Most summers are behind us: an expended blaze.

In light’s last dregs, the persevering lark delays.
Next week the turning year begins its afternoon.
Your step beside me is the only thing that stays.
Walk home with me between the barley and the maize.