The summer warmth begins to wane,
Where golden stalks once met the light,
And swallows mark the silent plain
Before the chill of gathering night.
A shadow skims the quiet land,
Where black wings circle in the air;
Love takes us gently by the hand
To tread the hills now glowing bare.
For grief and grace lie intertwined,
Like crimson vines upon the stone;
The deepest love we leave behind
Is measured in the tears we own.
A crown is yielded to the moss,
While quiet dreams begin to weave;
We count the treasure in our loss,
And love enough to mourn and grieve.
Lene
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