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There’s summer in old bathing trunks,
or where a hoof-print dints the sand;
it comes to me in creak of oars,
in Alford by our local Band.

There’s summer in a photograph
of me against an upturned boat,
un-posed beside a castle built
with rock and seaweed-bordered moat.

There’s summer in a pierrot’s song,
in shells collected on the beach:
to china souvenirs it clings –
those gifts for Gran at sixpence each.

Those warm, white-flannelled, hopeful days
of frittered time and foolish cheer,
when seasons changed with no surcease
to youth’s high summer all the year.

T. C. Hudson

© T. C. Hudson.

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