July and August are the counterweight
To Christmas and New Year. I hesitate
To liken them - the warm summer sun
And its cold obverse when there can be fun
If you are lucky; otherwise you spend
Weeks in suspended animation, friend,
Waiting for shops and libraries to be
Available again to you and me.
Instead of watching old films on TV,
Eating and drinking, breakfast,dinner, tea,
Over-consumption, going incessantly
From tea-table to toilet, maybe going out
To test your Christmas presents, to a shout
Of 'Shut the door!'. But you're used to that
You just ignore it. I'd hate getting fat,
Sitting around in cardigans and slippers,
Breakfasts of egg and bacon, sausage, kippers
So even if it's cold, I can atone
(Like Nurmi) by going out to run alone
Well muffled up in hat and scarves and gloves -
Each person should do exactly what he loves
Even at Christmas, the worst time of year,
Probably tops for suicides, I fear.
In summer you can feel alone as well
But it's a different feeling. You can smell
The scent of buddleia across the bridge,
Get out the deckchairs, pour out from the fridge
A glass of pear and cranberry juice, and spread
Butter and marmalade on whole-grain bread
And sit outside and watch the world go by,
Looking up at the lime to wonder why
The climate can't be like this all year round;
And in the sunlit, emptyish street the sound
Of the occasional car or lorry going
On some important errand, never knowing
That I am watching it go past. A few
People walk dogs across my garden view,
Stopping to put their pets' turds in
The very handy bright-red doggie-bin.
Traditionally (or so it seems to us
Since every summer we endure the fuss
Of getting ready to head off by air
Or car or coach to Spain or Greece, somewhere
Where sun is guaranteed - because it's not
In Bonnie Scotland, where each tourist ought
To bring some pullovers, an anorak
And wear stout shoes, He also needs to pack
Anti-mosquito stuff to stop the crowds
Of midges, not really put off by clouds
Of pipe tobacco or by bonfire smoke,
Which whatever we do still poke
Probosces into our most tender parts;
And that is where the unending scratching starts)
And so I try again: tradition states
That Scots should go on holiday in the States
(Capital S - the rhyme with 'states' can stand
Since one's a verb, the other the promised land
Of Mickey Mouse and Pluto, Universal
Studios, home of the rehearsal.
Or to a Mediterranean paradise
Where everything, from girls to pubs, is nice
Or to a distant Far East destination
Or to a Caribbean sunshine station,
A trip to Alice Springs or Timbuctoo -
It might as well be Mars or Xanadu,
The important thing is to get out of here
And to 'relax' before the coming year
Brings stress and trouble, maybe a new wife
Or some great alteration in your life,
Like unemployment, sudden fame, divorce
So that you very suddenly perforce
Have to adapt to changing circumstance
And move abroad to Africa or France.
Holidays - we try to get away
From troubles, but in fact they always stay
More or less the same: intensified
The difficulties that we feel inside,
The struggle to keep people feeling good
Is really very difficult; we should
Just be ourselves, you can't force folk to be
What they are not - that way leads to divorce,
Unhappiness and to the use of force
Which, as you'd think we'd know by now,
Is no damned use in practice anyhow.
So in conclusion: holidays form part
Of the annual circle - we depart
For a few weeks in Sydney or Dunoon
And get back into harness all too soon.
Take it as read: it's all part of the commonality
Of human life and of life's circularity.
