Summer never came so quick –

grass smacked, a cucumber air,

promised on a bird call, shot through

the colour of her hair,

a scream of bicycles and their fall.

 

No other before it seemed

had ever felt anything  –

the sirens of the suspension,

rang out in sweet petal tempered rain,

fingers locked in the curling veil,

 

soft, rubbed with a half here sight,

gathering in the folds,

where eye met eye, brave to hold

nothing old to fear. Summer went so close

to ruining any thought of future,

 

stowed away on the bold blue

rushing past their shoulders in the laughter –

over the hill,

their bicycles

and the yell of youth and abandon.