Sticky ice-cream fingers
on afternoons the length of a holiday,
the revenge of a smeared ant nest,
changes measured by the summer grass,
shared chips and love’s boiled egg
gone with the sun in the sea,
a tumbling fumbling romance
on a green bed of insects.
Shedding skin in the shade,
eyes squinting on the pool side.
I’ll shield them with a golden cloud
and show off my gory pink.
Windows right down to freshen
sweaty car with dry grass,
and drown out the bloody kids.
Wish I was going that way.
I want to eat with a wasp
and sleep on the coach,
and take a last glass of lemonade
on the retirement home garden.
Too brief, too long,
too hot, too many people.
Too few worth remembering:
the summers that measure our winters.
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