Summer

Cicadas' thrumming
A golden net of sound,
Dimpling the summer air.

It feels like a hammock
I can fall into
to rest in memories of summers gone
And entertain visions of the warm freedoms of summers to be.

Remembering those creases of wet golden sand
caught in places I'd never imagined possible
as I emerge sodden, sandy and disoriented
from that powerful rough sex embrace of a dumper,
That wall of foam flecked water
that rises so seductively,
luring me with its glassy beauty,
Pulling me into its depths
Ferociously rolling and tumbling me in moiling sand and water,
until,
crashing onto the shore
we're disentangled
and sprawl like lovers,
spent and panting but hungry for more.

The taste and feel of its saltiness
in my eyes and nose and mouth
The sound of its ebb and flow
comforting and soothing in its
promise of eternality.

The sea, like the wind,
has no beginning
and no end.