Grey light over the undulating tress of the Northbank
As the river flows to the darkening East.
August 30th, and sullen mood
Or defiant glee grips the passers-by,
Here on the South.
The workers are returning to throng
In the crowded city
With tans fading to memories
And a chill wind blowing from
Do not go my love.
You shone so fierce
So soon ago,
Unwitting of your warmth.
Hidden behind the sky I see,
That was yester blue.
But night will come, and then
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps like dawning hope through night
To break red or gold or hidden againOn the whim of the wind.