Summer’s for loving,

summer’s for picnics

by the beach,

the mountains,

the limestone caves.

 

he takes his blanket,

the threadbare,

wine handwoven one,

his gran ma made

or was it great-gran ma,

family heirloom

and wrapped his sand driven

toes deep into the pile,

the fringe,

that’s when he smelt her

perfume, oils,

oil of Ulay massaged,

and caressed into her crepy fingers

and toes.

The thick yellowed nails of her.

the long, waist length plait.

Some days, she was next to

him on the blanket, serving tea

from the old flask