Soulstice

We are Summer,
the heat of sun that etches straps
onto fired shoulders,
scants lawns after lunch,
this is how we burn.

We are Summer,
you lick me like a seafront
sand sprinkled cone,
I tang on your tongue,
my salt, your vinegar.

We are Summer,
midsummer traffic in Devon,
the windows are up,
radio plays redundant tunes,
we sweat in second gear.

We are Summer,
I crack like lightning,
you storm out, and then in,
drenched under the tree,
we kiss through our sop.