The not yet fallen sun evokes a scene
Fit for an impressionist’s painting hand:
A scene too bright to be a dream,
Of textured strokes loosely planned,
Of a lakeside view on glinting waves,
And of children with sandwiches and gazing men
-Bass and slow-developing octaves-
Not exactly wise, but with much in their ken.
Forgotten is the hotly contested prize:
No cat to excite the drowsy dog,
And no scene but sinking waves before their eyes,
While a pipe (or cigar?) wafts a fog.
Yet here, unseen, are forgotten dreams reborn,
Lying in the naked grass, awakened and forlorn.