Summer days spin by
a whoosh of blues and greens
along with braids of seaweed,
travelers check in for a respite
drop their bags, have a chat,
then off for a sticky bun and a hike,
painters with spindly legged easels
carefully poise themselves at the craggy coast,
while salty air fills white sheets hanging
from the weather worn clothes line
and below on the dew moistened grass,
a single leaf, rests as a prophet of days to come,
and she whispers a cool song from her red tinged edges.
this, alone, is the moment that matters.