Gone are the sounds of the passing landaus
the barn cats the cypress allée gently swaying at noon
the open French windows the gossamer branches the sky never more blue
So too the dog days with even the faintest of flickers
the fillies making their way to the barn as twilight descended
those clear and mild evenings
the drawing-room filled with the chatter of friends
the quick bedtime embrace the kiss on the forehead
a field of tall grass caught by a breeze in seclusion
those nights alone in the kitchen
those long-ago rides into autumn.