You were a dream

of something I’d never dreamed –

a summer in warm countryside

nights slept in your attic room


and vehemence in your feelings.

Together we wove a spell through that summer:

of walking by streams and the canal

of drinking and eating together

of green and heather covered Yorkshire hillsides;

and of Burgundy, with hot fine buildings and medieval streets,

of that cool dark crypt

and honey and chalk coloured churches,

of wine

and of that evening valley

with rolling hills

and dusty village

and soft voices

and gentle evening light

surrounding us.

And the spell we wove

stays on in the mind –

and will always stay –

long after the feelings woven through it

have passed;

for whatever may happen

the spell is there –

a memory, a truth,

a dream which was reality,

no fiction to unravel –

Yes, it was truth,

truth of that Burgundian evening valley

and the attic room

and you.


And I remember a cold glad evening

when we stood by the swirling water

the river’s grey water churning in spate over the weir;

The black bare branches of wintered beech overhung the water,

their supplicant twigs holding out to another summer.

But in the cold, we held to one another

and in another way the spell ran on.


One thought on “A SUMMER SPELL

  1. Brilliant David – some wonderful and refreshingly welcome respite from the nitty-gritty of reforming our weird and dysfunctional family law system in the UK. Of course, the spark of romance marks the beginning of potential family life – thanks for a poignant reminder.

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