In my childhood it was always summer
The sky riddled blue
And tiny cicadas clicked and hummed
As if they held out heat in their voices
Beaches stretched white rimmed forever
To the cusp of indigo horizon
So distant it shocked your eyes
Into seeing mirage islands
And reams of crinkled fish.
Grass dried into crisp arrangements
And clattered in the breezes – if they came.
Heat was everywhere and ripened the orchard fruit
All powdery and fresh
Our own spotted apricots and dripping plums.
If we were quiet we could taste our grandmother’s loganberries
Read books in the pear tree
Till bedtime came and went
And we were deliciously called home
In the evening the sea was smooth enough – even for my cousins –
Green and cool as their promises to write:
It was always like this.