The Temperate Zone

In the earth’s northern bands now comes summer

Faltering steps of gentle warming are now waxing
Slow and deliberate it has taken on the old world
Shaped it anew in broad strokes of deepening green
It comes neither fast enough, nor warm enough; for me
The close high summer days still seem so far away yet
Even as the zenith of radiance nears its full breadth
So runs out the world within the temperate zone
Hope each year dashed by geographical location
For this is no Spain; no Provence and no Tuscany
Just a damp quarter of England called Lancashire
Yet it is green and whole; even if it lowers the soul
And what the sun omits we supply with imagination