Behind Summers Curtain (Perast, Montenegro)

When summer leaves,
the diamond sea
turns to thick black ink,
the boat men
caramelised by Balkan sun
are milky servicing engines,
and the cloned army of air-kissers
live on
only
in Instagram galleries.
 
When summer leaves,
the white cat
devoted to fresh fish
is absent from the dock,
the industrious priest
spins in his chair texting
in a navy hoodie,
and the kiosk man
plays an eternal game of cards
waiting
for time to unhand dear June.
 
When summer leaves,
the gelato boy
gets to finish his essay at work,
the pomegranate lady
with smiles for sale
scrolls her phone with blank expression,
and the buzzing bronze geriatric
is unrecognisable
clothed.
 
When summer leaves,
the car park bros
peddling “experiences”
have season
for existential review,
and the little girl
who swims alone
is a sweet memory
whispering
in the wind.
 
When summer leaves,
my
heart
does too.