This summer's yellow tinges form

A harsh sandpaper of old gold.

They make the brightness rather dull

And leave the warmth a little cold.

 

They are not colours of the South,

The lemons and the salty blues;

They point towards these bleaker times

Of city heat and fear for news.

 

And yet the words of poets stir

Our hearts and pacify the nerves.

Such moments of release should be

The least that everyone deserves.