And June hurried in,
With the many assurances
of the cicada and her kin,
so that when the herring-skinned month
sang the same indulgent song
like every summer before,
We stayed waiting by the weary road
meeting Ourselves
on paths gone cool with remembering,
The ribbon of the familiar sky
wound sweet and knowing
behind the fading yews,
And like a dimpled mouth,
marked with atomic white,
the embittered air gave strange weight...