Between the gatepost and the gate, there is a narrow gap. And Summer brought me scents of fields and streams where I could lap. And grassy banks of dandelions that I could run among, But Summer seems so long ago, in Summer I was young. Between the gatepost and the gate, the gap remains the same, But fields and streams and dandelions no longer call my name. For Autumn’s come with heavy tread, stiff joints and dimming sight, Now Summer’s scents are lost and gone and Autumn is our blight.
