The taste of Angels

These summer days must not fade.

I'm not ready yet for home

where the nights are  crisp as apples.

We wake to the sea sounds

and the beautiful taste of salt on our skin.

On our bikes

we meet a hippie called one feather,

he wears a Peter Pan hat

and lives in a camper van

covered in memories from all over the world.

We  like him.

He wears a woodstock tee .

* Were you there? *

I ask him.

* Yea man,*

he says,

eyes full of  memory and the sixties.

Humming birds

dipping into day glow coloured flowers

and at night the waves crashing

as if answering a question

from the stars in the sky.

My lips are soaked in the fragrance

that is California

I imagine

it is

the taste

of distant angels