April Poem - 3

The summer breeze carried with it,
It seems from a mystery bowl far away,
Little notes of power and hope,
And packets of stories for the day.

The summer breeze played about,
With tiny blooms of flowers
It waltzed with leaves and dust
And sashayed everywhere for hours.

So caught up were we in our collective aim
Of being part of gilded history
We didn't listen to the summer breeze
As it foretold our Hugo-type of victory.

It seems to us quite a remarkable win,
A solid tangle of grit and thump,
Though the breeze knew we'd go the Victor Hugo way:
"You can't stop an idea whose time has come."


P.S. - We won the World Cup. Capital 'W'. Capital 'C'.