I remember sounds and faces of my past,
love’s vows, hot hugs and flamed kisses.
Romantic nights and parties, best songs,
best friends, nostalgic life’s expectations.
But my beloved expectations always were,
year by year, the singing of a bird.
A pheasant cuckoo strong hammering
two potent whistles, that, by no error,
all of us by then so listened:
summer comes, summer comes!
It was single a cuckoo that every year
worked with peculiar trill to announce
oncoming days of most desired season.
We never saw but always heard its song
only appearing and sounding once a year.
Its chant has been lost and our summer
has not ever been the same, without
that hammering dear beat.
Published in Whispers, October 04 2015.