A Curtailed Summer

My response to Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Writing Prompt #169 “Collage Special Edition”

 

That year of our childhood,

We picked berries,

Squeezed their shiny plumpness

Until their blood ran red.

Intoxicated by the bitter sweetness

And our summer freedom,

We tottered down to the mill pond

And clambered on the abandoned

Lichen-stained waterwheel,

Anchored in a snarl of chickweed.

Our feet beat tattoos

On the wooden slats

Above the stagnant ooze.

In the hubbub of our joyous shouts,

Verbose frogs and whining gnats,

We didn’t hear the water spatter

Or, if we did, it didn’t matter,

There were so many of us there,

Someone else was taking care.

Later, when we gathered round

To saunter back,

Along the dusty track,

Nobody noticed she was gone;

An only child, she walked alone,

Outside sibling groups and family news,

A tidy girl with polished shoes,

While the rest of us ran around on bare feet.

It wasn’t until after teatime,

When light was fading down our street,

I brought father his jug of evening

Wine and, while I waited for his blessing,

My eye was drawn to the study window,

Where water trickled down the pane

And a small hand in the darkling shadow

Waved –

Or was it drowning?

 

© Kim M. Russell, 2016

The quote “And who among us poets has not adulterated his wine?” is from Nietzsche.