Summer Nears Poem by Naveed Akram

As summer neared pouncing on the young,
We are yet to hear the whole irony of a gun.
This gun is near called the summer and wind,
I call a plain honour the height of vigour.

Watchful fields encompass the clouds,
With grass green, grass not grey until night.
The lights of night are near like the Sunday,
When the hours of lightning are astray.

Inside the eyes of my head brings a sight
Of the wild variety, a worrisome smile is about.
Within the minds and hearts there is abolition
Of the summers and winters of ancient nature.