summer holiday

Image Source, Annie Spratt (Unsplash)

in early summer, you wander about

in a warm haze, staggering with

drunken freedom.

there are days ahead of pure nothing -

thrilled evenings lay out like

a pressed map.

you trace the routes with a fingertip,

and days blur into the ink as you

touch time itself.

it drags for weeks. willing routine

out of sultry air, you curl

and watch a clock.

but, by the last few days, you need it

again. long hours of thought, trip

​to nowhere. bring it back.

by Imogen Beaumont

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