When I open my eyes

as I do all too often

I see only the room.

I know too well the dim glare

of the flickering light

on the dull wooden floor

 

With closed eyes

I go dreaming,

Drifting back decades

to soft summers and boredom

 

I long to feel the shock of striking

the bright and breathless surface

Dazzled by diamond splashes

sparkling on frothy bobbing crests

Waves that go slapping and gulls that swirl calling

 

But my eyes are open again,

and I know that by now

I should have stopped.

Because no matter how hard I dream

I can never be sixteen

And just lie on my back

Playing with ash-arches of sunlight

and following ribbons of birdsong,

days of skylarks and tent poles.

 

The sea recedes and I’m startled

chucked like a sack back

into the room I’ve never left

Where there’s no beach

and no skylarks

and no beans on the camp-stove,

It’s only memories that fly chattering and rattling around the room.