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