short stories

SUMMER STARS

People burn with the poetry of themselves ~ Michael Meade

All week the waxing moon

laced our nights with poetry

it scripted neon messages on

our bodies as we bathed in the dark pool

and linked a million summer evenings together…

The cool blue-blackness enveloped Bridget as she gazed into the night sky. She lay suspended in the still water at the deep end of the swimming pool, as if floating in an enormous bowl of darkness amidst silver reflections of infinity. Raphael was lazing on the wooden deck. The two Labradors were on guard.

She listened. Raphael had turned up the music. Stravinsky’s Firebird drifted across the water, isolating her further from the harsh realities of a South Australian summer. She closed her eyes. Words and images interwove . . .

extract from PURE Collection - Judith Bruton