Those summer days, lying on the grass, watching the clouds, day-dreaming of nothing in particular; no one needs me, children busy, no obligations or meetings … days, hours, to remember …
SUMMER SHOES 
dance out the door
straps waving as they waltz
down the street
one – two – three
one – two – three
they turn, buckles glinting
to fly above the corner
spin over a roof-top
glide up a sunbeam
a dazzling thread of summer
they rise
dancing into cloud-land
like wild green balloons
A Summer Father … Here is poetry … interweaving images culled from a wartime childhood with bittersweet memories of a “summer father”. Lynda Monahan
