I fancy a week just sat in the English sun,

perhaps in Scarborough or Whitby,

the beauty of the timeless

only peppered by the taste of chips

and fish basked gently in beer batter

crisp and juicy and the sound of seagulls

from the top of the Captain Cook

and the sound of cricket,

signalled through the haze and the brush

of leather upon a willow skin;

I fancy a week in English sun.

 

I fancy going deep rust, my skin

turning English pale

ailing against the buffeting wind,

perhaps in Poole harbour,

or on the common ground

surrounding the hoe in Plymouth,

memories of childhood dispelling Birmingham air,

or even being serenaded by gentle splash

as the toad and badger mess

about on river banks in rural bliss;

I fancy a week in English sun.

 

I fancy a week of sitting lazily

inside Lords, my earphones

picking up Test Match Special

and soaking up the atmosphere

of potential rain and overthrow,

the clatter of wickets

and not being out when going

out to sit in a theatre, cool

and full force of Ayckbourn

and Fentiman’s Ginger Beer dribbling off my chin;

I fancy a week in the English sun.

 

I would take all the week you can throw at me,

just to rest in a different way,

I would go back to the days

of my youth and cycle with sweat piercing

my brow as I climbed Brill Hill

or cycled out to sit and smoke

a while, drink and kiss

in teenage glee in Launton lanes,

Wendlebury and Banbury moments

and Bicester Garth Park abandon;

I fancy a week in English sun.

 

I would take the week

and sit and do nothing but listen,

the sound of seagulls,

the reminisce of days on Guernsey beaches

and climbing rocks, hidden caves

explored with confidence

and the taste of salt air

invigorating the lungs; too soon

the days of youth are gone

and all we are left with,

if not careful,

is wishing for a week in English sun.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016.