Whisperings

The summer sun shone round me,

The folded valley lay

In a stream of sun and odour,

That sultry summer day.

The tall trees stood in the sunlight

As still as still could be,

But the deep grass sighed and rustled

And bowed and beckoned me.

The deep grass moved and whispered

And bowed and brushed my face.

It whispered in the sunshine:

"The winter comes apace."

Robert Louis Stevenson

All photographs by Baya Clare, CSJ unless otherwise noted.