Summer daze,

drifting into falling gold

to finish.

We put away our home from home

of orange-brown acrylic,

leaving debris tucked in pockets.

Bottle-tops and old lip balms;

dirty skins and baccy strands;

ciggy filters; bits of grass;

fairy dust and magic eyes;

sugar made of salt.

Litter from the happy hours  

and many fields we danced in

under dark and diamond skies,

in the flaming of the days.

 

Airbed swapped for king-size pine.

Attic-bound, the pots and pans and dinky calor cooker.

Wellies tucked away to not be found in May to come. 

The noisy footpump stored along with extra poles and pegs,

all haphazard in the packing,

to be puzzled out next year:

which one goes with what goes where?

 

Spare room empties out the wood-smoke

memories of pleasure;

of friendships anchored in the dancing

flames of 5am.

Summerfun is packed away

to wait around the corner

of the winter,

malcontent,

blowing smoke-rings,

and never getting old.