July, Rained Over

If July rains over, I’ll be first to thaw

the delicate grass from its dusty mould,

and where it is stiff and brown from Summer’s draw

into the wet, and dark, and smouldering cold.

If our love is over, I’ll be the last to know.

If you come again, I’ll be waiting too

where the ephemeral day is remade anew;

the Moon, a silver ship to another life,

the Sun to keep us lit by night.

And if you’re leaving me, then I’m going with you.