We Go
Our seasons here are nearly run;
it’s time to seek the Southern sun.
In the fields the farmers mow;
we gather now in each fence-row.
We go, we go;
this is all we know.
Heeding Summer’s fading song,
telling all we not have long;
when the cold winds start to blow,
when the weather cocks all crow,
we’ll know, we’ll know,
it’s time for us to go.
Dawn comes late now, chill and gray,
as leaves scatter, borne away,
and we too must join the flow;
our world has been ever so.
We go, we go;
this is all we know.
In night’s darkness voices sigh;
brothers passing through the sky.
Far below us, stag and doe
make their passage through the snow.
we know, we know,
it’s time for us to go.
Stephen Brooke ©2026
possibly for a children's book, should I write any more of them
