Summersong

The warmth of the morning sun, and freshly cut grass from the gardens. Summer is not a season, but a memory; of ice cream dripping down our hands, sweet lemonade in the afternoons, gully cricket in the evenings after homework, and cards in the veranda at night.

 

The lilt of the crickets and tinkle of windchimes; they carry memories of our childhood, a summersong from the heart.