Up here there are no protective walls,
just open air. It is cold, freezing in fact
and the ground is rocky. Sunrise
has a peculiar effect on the waking senses:
shadows moving across rippling canvas
become Compo, Clegg, Foggy and the rest, creeping
into the tail end of restless dreams.
A sudden gust of wind makes them jump,
as rainwater from last night's storm
cascades noisily down the sides of our tent.
With full consciousness the Summer Wine illusion recedes,
untouchable as tomorrow, leaving
two campers shivering in inefficient sleeping bags.
Soon bacon and eggs are frying, spitting fat,
over a single ring Gaz cooker.
Aah! Such delicious aroma of bygone days.
Tent door open, the sloping field stretches out,
rain-drenched green. Grazing sheep
baa out a catchy melody that makes us want to dance.
We begin to thaw like icicles in the pale sun
that has come to remind us this is high summer.
Where we sit, warmth-animated, harvest men congregate
in their leggy beauty, seeking suitable mates for the coming autumn.
The moon's day-ghost gradually fades into blue,
and a gigantic bumble bee strays into our tent.
Today, we are going to Holmfirth, in search of Nora Batty's house...
* For anyone who is unfamiliar with "Last of the Summer Wine"...it was a popular long-running British comedy series about a group of O.A.P.'s reliving their lost youth!
I am taking a short break, so will visit you all again soon. Have a great week! :))