by Carol Rogers
Summer; the dazzler. Or the fraudulent,
wet gangster, holding some to ransom in
the cheap gloom of their chalet rooms.
Days overhung with prison spirits and
spits of cloud. Counting the hours.
Vowing never to return.
Others have soared with the breeze on
excited cliffs; their hearts have sung.
The lucky ones.
Hoarding happy pebbles in their pockets.
Memoirs on their towels - castaway sand
and bubbles of salty bladderwrack.
They'll be back.
©2008 Carol Rogers
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