Pacing
It took fifty-seven paces to the end of the track
But for some strange reason, only fifty-six back.
I tried it again, for something to do
While constantly phoning for breakdown rescue.
The ants were enormous, the grasshoppers blue
Inside of their wings only showed when they flew.
Thistles and lavender, cornflowers too,
But mostly just tarmac, a magnificent view.
Of the village below, a distant haze
Whilst here on the hill, we’ve been waiting for days.
Well that’s how it seems here in the heat,
A broken down car, my life at my feet;
Two tents and three cases
A bag full of shoes,
Four roll mats, gas cooker
And a map of Toulouse.
Wet suits and sun hats
A blow-up canoe,
Cool box and sun cream
A deck chair or two.
There are pillows for night time
A towel for the beach,
Two picnic rugs
And a goodie bag each.
“You can take what you like,
if it fits in the boot”
I spy a small gap
And fill it with loot.
The back seat is clear
Tunnel’s booked for tonight
We’re off and our hols
And we’re travelling light.
Copyright © Tricia Lucas-Clarke | Year Posted 2017
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