It was the first and last holiday
of childhood, the only time we
ever went away, and precious
because of its exceptionality,

where the riveting glaring
gaze of the white-sand beach,
remained in memory always,
and the sky burst shocking

blue, as if it held Summer to
account, and dared the days to
languish in shadow, when they
could not, and would not be

released from the brilliant grip
of sunshine, day after day after
day, where the tease of hot sand
through drying toes and the salt

captured kiss of the sea refused
to leave clothes, or lips or skin,
not even when we ate the fresh
cooked fish, caught by rod at

the edge of the beach, each day
as if the King George Whiting
waited for the hook, knowing
this was the gift they offered

in a Summer that would never
be known again, at least for
some, and therefore, would
be held in perfect prism.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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