Thief of Summers
He’ll stop playing the radio
prefer the echo of backroads driving home
hotㅤlate summerㅤblue-hour already tumblin’
old friendㅤthe Wagoneer lumbers
tires sucking early dusk air
between warm blacktop and worn tread
its thrumㅤwet purrㅤsinging her into sleep
on the back seat blanketed.
Still rested in the curve of his lip
a spar by ghosts ㅤhe’ll sense
as mustard, sweat & baby oil.
Her wet hairㅤjoin scent with day’s glistened skin.
He’ll want for a goneㅤmourn intoxicating Augusts
grow tiredㅤevening drifting orchidㅤinland
homewardㅤ …where she will wake soon
not knowing who he is.
Windows rolled downㅤfinding comfort
to breeze’s rhythmic brush against eardrums
rustle of tall blanched grass sent to shiver in curves
raise savour in salt, seaㅤand roused memory.
Time an emptied pauseㅤflat black road winding
lost where thoughts can stretch
a silent-prayer cast across dark altar.
And they will do all againㅤafter:
ㅤOne season sleeps to dream another.
ㅤIn faded recall ㅤshe’ll love the dunes
ㅤ…a tawny awkward boy met there.
©jef l littlejohn 2021 (reworked)