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Nov 2017
The water in the paddling pool turns cold.
Mugs of coca-cola on the grass,
a skipping rope and cards.
Mum grabs a jacket, Dad has a blanket around his
knees and says, get your own, then laughs,
hugs you close. The edge of a chill rears its head
while cold lemonade slides smoothly down,
slow, between waves of laughter.
Calls for more crisps, ice for the cider.
You lean back in your seat, sleepy from
the sweetest evening, a book rested in your lap.

The evening will end. You know that.
You know it, but don’t feel it at all.
Martha O'Brien
Written by
Martha O'Brien  UK
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