LATE SUMMER

The drone of bumble bees
Who fly haphazard
The sound of cowbells
The smell of mown grass
Can we complain as waters stream
About sweaty eyes and dirty knees?
When we are young life’s not so hard
As we drift o’er hills and dales
Clouds gone, the rain, it’ll soon pass
No thought of how it might have been
Seize the day and grit it hard
As the sun’s warmth enters your knees
Give thanks to all the honey bees.
© David Gray