a sign of autumn sails by,
silently suggesting that summer is on its merry way out.
fire in water, the wind-torn edges curled up,
it negotiates the gentle, lapping tide.
reflections steal the leaf from view.

two sailboats, steered from the shore by father
and son,
cut a quiet path through cool, salty waters.
the wakes of speedboats bounce them
as the waves undulate, roll, tumble against the beach,
each tip pushing another in diverging directions
until they ease upon the sand.

crisp whitecaps crumble into sea foam as they
dash the sand, splashing against me.
the heaviest suck back into the swell, dragging
sand and shells out from under my feet.
they whittle a steeper slope from the shore, a sculpture
that dries quickly in the warm sun.

the little girl's blonde hair glows in the light
as she scrambles, shrieking with delight,
in and out of the water, mother casting a cautious gaze.
the thin, tropical sea foam gathers around
her feet and glistens all along the shore, in its slow,
sparkling retreat.
she tosses handfuls of wet sand onto the dry.

huge waves pound the shore and delight me as I skitter back.
I no longer feel at one with the "sea" when my
limbs go numb and the water begins to sting around my calves.
but coot or not, this is bliss and I cannot leave it.
the sunlight curves across the beach, tickling the
water as if orchestrated, the rays singing.

I smile, stall and wait; the wind picks up.
it's time.
as if the onlookers are betting on my decision,
I tip backward and barely move through the
chill before rising and trying once more,
only to get up, not defeated by the late season but
rather, refreshed and triumphant.
I smile up at the spectators and curl a towel
around myself, testing the water with my toes.
it no longer feels warm. the tide has ripped the heat
away and the sun is playing hide-and-seek
with me.
but I did it.

I pull myself away from liquid heaven,
the endless waves that make love to my overwhelmed skin,
as the sailboats head out to sea.

Thank you to Stephen Rees for the photograph to complement.

Yesterday The Visitor returned for tea, uninvited. Lumbering across the lawn, he (or she) found a comfy spot and settled down onto the mossy grass and laurel hedge cuttings. Stretched out like a bear rug, he lay there panting, only looking up to see what the passing cars or people were on about. I agreed, it was a hot afternoon.

And so he lounged there awhile, would find a different spot every so often, roll over and roll back. Sometimes he would stretch out until his hind legs were straight and his front legs casually bent in front of him, supporting a sleepy head. "I'm so full... so sleepy." One could say, I suppose, that he was having a siesta.

I had been meaning to clean my sneakers for awhile. Finally getting around to it today, I went to look for some shoe cleaning products in the laundry room cupboard. There were none. A thought then crossed my mind: why do I have to use a specially-formulated chemical product to clean my footwear? Why not, y'know, laundry detergent or something?

A-ha.

Why not... baking soda? It is, after all, white clothing's best friend and the filthiest part of my sneakers was the bottom white strip. So I grabbed the box of baking soda (I really ought to work for Arm & Hammer or something) and a damp rag (an old washcloth). Meantime it was just my luck that the rubbery suede brush tool had hardened beyond recognition, so that in itself was useless.