Were it not for you, I'd know nothing more fair.
All the words that were writ, on a sunny Spring day.
Cannot add up to the joy you bring me.
All the time that banks up, stones in a pail.
Visions of you, the wind in my sail.
Winds back to wind, like rust back to rust.
To blow another day, when spirit needs a gust.
The "L's" and the "H's" blow 'cross the land.
Calculations, predictions, and the counting of sand.
But the heat of the sun, warms the scent from the soil.
And you're the genuine Spring, with summer on the boil.
---
George Dyke
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