And this time next week
When planes find their feet
We’ll dive and somersault
In the brine, the summer salt
Tasting sun on our skins
Sweet split watermelon grins
Sand, sea, sky – each a line
Fish in paper, lemon, wine
New tanlines will cross backs
Roadtrip mixtapes in stacks
And the flip flop beat songs
Of what you call flip flops
…and I call thongs.
Clare Fletcher 