The moon tastes good
with a mixer of Kopparburg Cider
and a twist of liberty.
She lies back in her black denim jacket
in the still warm sands
and lifts her bare toes to the sky,
tapping out an unchained tune
to the wonder of summer,
life as light as a feather and her,
with both feet off the ground.
She doesn’t know who opens
the second cider for her
or the third.
Or when the empty bag
of bacon frazzles
floats through the bonfire’s smoke
to settle in beside her.
She’s not sure when the good intentions
of a roll of bin bags (tucked between cans and crisps)
gets forgotten.
Eventually, the youthful whoops and cries,
the hullabaloo of a rare hot night,
drift off with the falling tide.
The rest is left behind.
Smashed glass. Beer bottles. The planet. Her jacket.
She wakes ashamed.
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