Dune grass is combed with tender sun-rays and a sense of

melancholy marks the day’s final hours.

It had been so lovely, the sand, the water, the cut grass smell, when time was plenty and the hours long.

Now, life keeps clicking and ticking away like the steady grinds of an ancient clock, working a weaver’s loom, pushing

an engine, moving time. The world is a little older.

We go back to the dunes once more, but the sand is bereft of heat, cold under our soles.

Pastel hues fade westwards, highlighting the tidal pools,

just as it was when the airs sung with laughter and salt caked our shins from spray.

The ocean beckons still and we step closer to try and grasp a little of what was the season’s essence, now changed into

something different, more herb, more spiced.

The sun brushes our sky-turned faces with less conviction.

Daylight’s flames are taken away by torch-bearers who seek southern climates, across the sea, far away,

past our summer’s end.