Where we made the fire
In the summer time
Of branch and briar
On the hill to the sea,
I slowly climb
Through winter mire,
And scan and trace
The forsaken place
Quite readily.
Now a cold wind blows,
And the grass is grey,
But the spot still shows
This is perhaps unexpected. The poet seems to be accepting and embracing his sadness and loss, rather than rebelling against whatever sad fate has dealt him.
Where the picnic was