Last day to swim in the summer baked river,
we sisters lounge on towels sunbathing,
laughing at the sun and sand between toes,
drunk on summer memories and bitter
at the promise of autumn coming soon.
A young man runs toward us, toes kicking sand,
he shouts "the water's fine" more an invitation
than judgement on the frigid August waves.
We laugh because it's the easiest response
and he shrugs, undaunted, and runs straight
into the river, attempting something caught
between a cartwheel and a fish out of water.
And when we retell the tale, of the boy's flirting
cartwheels and our sun-poisoned giggles,
he shall be our Poseidon and he
shall command these waters around us
before our song tempts him to shore before
our summer fades to myth tinted memories.