On Whimberry Hill

It's where we found our thrill, up there on Whimberry Hill, though I complained, that it might rain, and said there was a chill. You said that it was fine, the sun would surely shine, wind in your hair, but you didn't care, the only clouds were mine. We sat to admire the view, holding hands stained berry blue, though tums grumbled, for fruit crumble, saucer pie later would do. Walking back late afternoon, summer had ended too soon, grass in your hair, you didn't care, singing to your own tune.