Send me one more summer in the hills. Pack it neatly, arrange it so that opened up the whole of it will spread across a half a dozen months or more. Make it full as any picnic basket packed up tightly with beloved things. Every day need not be warm. Light rain should thread, could thread some days together. Let me spend those summer days within my own country. A citizen not of the world but here. In my land, in my place in or near some town that I have known or lived in. Perhaps - but dare I ask? Inside, beside some face or arms that I have lived within before. God of our fathers, if you can hear, send another summer please before I die. The cold within, without goes on too long. My great coat has been on the rack just inside the hall near half a year now. Too long. Too long for one whose body’s only healed by shades of summer brown. Pale I am and ready for another August. Hurry up and in exchange I will spend the months till then on my knees in prayer.