The winner of the poetry competition two
was

The Ritual of Summer
by
Carol Witherow

First, the opening of the trunk
with last year's summer clothes – they'll do your sister one more year –
then the pocket money counted up, for Peggy's Legs and Satin Pillows;
and finally the packing, along with dogs and cats and swimming togs
of buckets, spades and tennis bats,
all piled into Dad's new Austin.
On our way to summer joys -
are we nearly there yet?

Pillow fights and spin the bottle,
midnight feasts and jellyfish;

cops and robbers, cowboys, injuns,
hide-and-go-seek in the ocean of sand;

salty fingers wet with vinegar,
lemonade tickling freckled noses;

feral children tucked up in bed,
a capsized sandal on the floor.

Memories like intimations
trace the way back to that time, that state.
If I close my eyes and think of summer, I wonder -
am I nearly there yet?

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Our annual holiday in Bettystown, when we were children, was the highlight of every year for fourteen years. Then, it was a small seaside town 30 miles north of Dublin, a seemingly unfathomable distance at the time. This poem is my thank you for the blissful times we enjoyed then.

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