… and summer is for labour.
The labour is of love;
it makes what little one may have
less tumbledown and rough.

To build a coop for chickens,
to mow an unruly lawn,
and live in harmony and warmth
on land till summer’s gone.

This labour is the saviour:
it ousts a fleeting thought
of what last summer took away,
and of the pain it brought.

The brick will meet a brick face,
the blade a blade of grass,
the pain of loss the sense of grace
in all that comes to pass.