Now is the golden time, the sun rides high
And gilds each leaf in canopy above,
Fair weather clouds drift in an azure sky
Insects circle in the somnolent air.
Give thanks for plenty; bake the Lammas loaf
Fairs and markets thrive in the dusty fields,
Shy courting, and weddings – ah! young love
Holiday, high summer, first of the grain – new beer!
Camp fires entice, wood-smoke on balmy air
As travelling gypsy bands strike up their tunes
The smell of cooking wafts over the fair
Sideshows, stalls, laughter in warm summer dusk.
Alas, the fields where once the fiddlers played
Are long gone; now a car park on a hill
But listen quietly late on Lammas Day
And you may hear the fiddlers playing still.
Pam Jeanetta Bird-Gaines