September In The Water
Summer signs out on the calendar, maybe distractedly: it leaves a trail of warm days.
In these days we can find a body of water appealing, strip impromptu, dip and swim; strike out limbs, put trepidous feet into murk, thrilled by the press of weed.
We can be merfolk, pirates, explorers, in our storied dialogues; jumping from rocks, invading an island of boggy grass.
Then we put coats on, walk brisk, eat a pot of good olives.
We can run down a beach into shallow waves for miles, till the dog gets tired and swims back.
We can slither back through rock pools, joining a gull tribe. Hear the kittiwake's call. Days are busy busy - too much needs doing - but nothing more than this.
Out of the water when we are wet and the breeze finds us we recall that summer has signed out, that we are in the remnants. Clothed again skin has a buzz of circulation, a flush of warmth.