This could be
The long last day of summer
This time so so free
It is now I have I see
Once again to become a number
Though not before the breeze
Or the sunrise
Or the filtered light
So so tight; my eyes, my hands
They have to find their own way
The gardener, in his Suffolk smock
The fairground girl
With her countryfied frock
The world is our oyster
With fate now so firm unlocked
Sit here
In this Mediterranean zephyr
With an English tea
And rose perfume
Among the pagodas
Down by the waters edge
The tinker bells
Tinkle tap their tune
This could be
There goes the breeze again
Through and out the garden
Over the roses, down by the waters edge
You do know how it is now
Now don’t you
Although it could still be the middle of June
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