summer’s end

They toy beneath the peach trees, without meaning a word in this language of sweet nothings. The scent of promise hangs like mist. Cheek to cheek, arm in arm, their half-a-brain-cell forming one. They toy so long, the silly fools, that summer comes and goes. And now they stop to look around and find the peaches are spoilt, the grass needs cutting and life has begun again, this time a golden, honest hue.

One of them sets sail upon the world, in a bid to find the moon. The other goes home, and from the heights of a bedroom window, builds up a life worth living. They bear, onwards and forever, the fruits of that thoughtless, endless summer.