My summer legs run wild
along a dappled path flanked by
hawthorne hedge.
Acorns swell and rose hips
like cherub cheeks
smile from leafy frames.
Blackberry juice trickles down
my chin and stains
my sticky fingers.
I am eight years old
again, no cares constrain
or weigh upon my freckled
shoulders – even the sharp whip
of encroaching nettles is easy
to brush aside.
Far off the city smoke smudges
a slant-eyed sky, hungover,
weary of watching ant-like industry.
Here is all bright and burgeoning:
the raven cocks his head and snatches
unwitting worms – I too will soon be
snatched and swallowed whole –
summer solstice ended.

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