Picture by Gayle Murphy
You deceived me with your promises
of bright, warm days and long, light nights.
How could you.
We were to fly among the hills
and walk through new warm sea;
instead I emerge like a pit pony
into the coal-black afternoon.
You have done this before,
but I am soft and need your touch
yet you tease me with trailers of might be
you advertise so well it is a pity
you have nothing to sell.
You are the summer love:
Transient, naïve and remembered
with distorted fondness.