Some remnant living in muscle memory
is pressed, dressed and polished each time
he marches, slowly now and with tired bones,
to the Legion for his Friday bingo.
I spent last night in my valley.
Green and peaceful, it is.
Slow wagons of unburdened past
creak slow down berry-bright lanes.
There's a blue harmony to Summer rain,
Its subtle rhythm suits the mood I'm in,
A pulsing tempo, a liquid refrain
A slope of rising road
gains on the pair of us -
Dusty birds and drunken bees
Along about now
old Day pulls the covers up
and whispers night-night.