when summer came to brighton
she came wombling from devil's dyke
like a piece of wind
with a wicker hat and dress of
billowing bees that went off
suckling for nectar
her lips glistened
with the morning dew of the downs
her skin glazed with the salt
of the breeze that carried
from the white cliffs of woodingdean
children flung their arms in the air
and went rolling
green tumbleweeds into the valley
collecting grass tagalongs in their hair
giggling when she caressed their faces
and left them for the sea
the boys on their blow-up boat
cracked open the warmed cans
from that glorious hour on the pebbles
they tasted her salty splash when their
upper lips kissed
the back-flipped ring-pulls
she took the rays from the orange orb
and spun them
with her spider wings
attached them to the ripple crests
until they sparkled
at the shallows
ankles of blue bone
and the toothpaste froth of the tide
came in to white screams and went out
all peach-cheeked laughter
pale elbows perched on the pebbles
smiled
and shook their heads
she hauled in the tide
from threads of silk
a thousand-armed puppeteer
dragging green-black jungles of seaweed
over the stones
at the arches she dropped hot honey
into plastic cups of gold
painting wet circles on picnic tables where
hens and stags and proud brightonborns
tapped their feet
and slapped red thighs for the band
she caught the marbles of rhythm
and ballooned them
a glass blower
and they cacophonied under the sun
yachts escaped the marina walls
swans with their wings aloft
at a river's yawning mouth
she filled their sails with a gentle breath
and sent them bounding
gaily toward the piers
sailors on deck saw the pillars of smoke
barbecues that blackened the pebbles
and curtained the long promenade
sausages burnt on one side
and burgers pink in the middle
she followed the sails to the piers
to conduct the sunset murmuration of the starlings
they swept over the skeleton pier
a mournful dance that
breathed and pulsed
the tail of an aimless comet
summer babes dropped their doughnuts to their sides to watch
then she cut the strings of her starling kites
and let them loose
and she left summer to waltz
its own caramel waltz
from the horizon
summer had come to brighton
Tomas Marcantonio is a fiction writer from Brighton, England. He has been published in over a dozen journals and anthologies, most recently Soft Cartel, Schlock!, and X-R-A-Y. Tomas is currently based in Busan, South Korea, where he teaches English and writes whenever he can escape the classroom. You can connect with Tomas on Twitter @TJMarcantonio.