Some summer nights are hardly nights at all,
just lazy azure dimming into grey,
inching along at end of day,
reluctant dusk begins to fall
on scented stock along the way,
and rambling roses by the wall
and swarms of midges out at play.
Later, through dimness comes a call;
a cock crows, somewhere far away,
the early start of another day.
Some summer nights are hardly nights at all.
