Do you recall those get-aways.
two days of heaven, sometimes three,
we'd spend together at the lake,
before the kids, just you and me?
How sleepily we'd greet the morn,
the cove sun-daubed in yellow-pink,
the distant shore disguised by mist
so fairy-kissed we dared not wink.
A breakfast on the screened-in porch
of lard-fried eggs and griddle cakes,
or sour-dough toast with marmalade,
hash-brown potatoes, minute steaks.
Has coffee ever smelled as good
as what we brewed in Gramps' old pot?
"Awakes the sinuses," you said.
I let mine cool, you drank it hot.
We parted briefly at midday.
I'd grab Gramps' creel and bamboo rod,
and drag the dinghy down the slope.
When I pushed off, you'd grin, applaud.
Upon the dock you chose a spot
to spread a towel on which you sprawled.
That crimson two-piece that you wore
by standards then a bit ribald.
At eventide our meal was done,
the bass I'd caught and charcoal baked.
We sipped a local cherry wine
with home-made cake, our hunger slaked.
As shadows grew, the moon arose
and bathed the cabin in its glow.
The birdsong waned, but crickets chirped.
You took my hand, to bed we'd go.
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| Writing Prompt |
Write a poem, any style or length, about summer. |
Author Notes
The artwork is courtesy of Google images.
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