Summer...

He is a tease; 

A flirt with eyes of gold

Or, at best, a respite from the cold.

The warmth he brings

A passing guest,

A stranger,

A traveller on a quest

En route to other parts

That he knows best.

A visitor.

A tourist.

A frequent flyer.

Not a resident

Or a citizen

But a gun for hire,

While winter's chilly arms are far reaching

Ever groping,

Ever seeking.

Even during her time away,

Her icy fingers often stray

Into pools where children splash and play.

She recks nothing of the glad sun's rays

That bathe the land in estival days.

Her caress an echo of attenuated power,

A predator awaiting her hour,

A grip relaxed but not released;

A victor preparing for the feast.

So what then is summer to a child

Birthed by the waters of a tropical tide

But a brief truce, a merry farce

A pale imitation to make the gods laugh;

An offering to placate and mellow

Before a fresh onslaught 

From the frost giants' bellows?

Summer...

A living vision, a waking dream

That dissipates like a puff of steam

On the breath of a frozen scream.
Transient,
Ethereal,
And surreal.