That Summer

(A rite of passage sort of thing).

O remember that rolling sunflower sea,
we saw each morning on waking
from the pigeonnier,
a golden ocean breaking on the timid lawn,
the black–faced waves expertly
frozen by the sunrise,
the crashing silence, deafening.


O remember that dawn you swam out
naked, amongst those golden waves,
pert breasts floating serenely
as you waved, hands aloft, then,
occasionally lost to view,
re-appearing here, then there
to tease my keening eyes.


O remember me, left forlorn on that shore,
the day you drifted further out
washed across that burnished horizon,
your final salute to maidenhood
leaving me to wait and pace
until the brilliant gold turned to green
and you were there no more.


© Graham Sherwood 12/2014