Spring, that year, was late to the game,
The smelt-snow a blizzard and then freezing rain.
The full moon in May was no day for planting,
Wet fields in June and farmers were ranting.
But through the good valley swam gaspereaux,
The fiddleheads green, the fish fat with roe.
Summer, that year, flew in fast and high,
Hot as Jamaica, new moon in July.
Hay fields checkered with great golden bales,
Larks in the meadow, frogs in the swale.
And down the good river tubes waltzed along,
Sunburnt bellies and bop-a-long songs.
…to be continued