A city is not its landmarks,
They are merely brick and mortar mascara,
Traps for tourists,
A city is its soul,
The veins of the urban centres,
The cobblestone lifeblood of a city,
The alleyways and sights less seen,
The sights and spices and blood,
The sweat and tears and backstreets,
In these asphalt warrens,
You’ll see the real life of the city,
The real people,
The blood cells through these capillaries.
On this day,
Put on your sunhats and bathing suits,
Grab your towels and sun cream,
For we are all tourists,
Not in Rome,
Not in Tokyo,
Nor in Lapland,
Not even your local beach,
But tourists of life,
It’s a holiday of decades,
Under many suns and moons,
A limited booking,
With activities for every ilk,
Scholarly or athletic or otherwise,
Our time is limited,
But the possibilities are limitless,
This existence is a vacation,
A long stay in a terrestrial hotel,
And nobody knows their checkout time.
I do say,
When these months rear their head,
The summer sky hypnotises the world,
It appears to shift every dynamic,
Every face has that much more vigour,
And each body dances so much more fervently,
Not a cloud crosses our path,
Tans replacing scarves,
Carmine ousting the grey,
Like an eldritch entity,
Deep ultramarine and limitless in body,
Way above us,
I see its cyclopean eye,
Watching and slowly broiling,
It burns with zeal,
But means no harm,
This stratosphere spirit,
It only wishes to animate us anew,
Before the fall.
On a happy day like this,
One must go on travails,
It’s expected of me,
A day like this must be favoured,
Must be taken in,
This spit of land,
We take what we can from it,
Traipsing along these island veins,
Running my fingers along white cliffs,
And across fields of green,
Enjoying it is a razor,
The sweet touch of a land adored,
The candy edge of an island of summer,
You’ll find me supping at the sight,
Clawing at the sun and licking in the swelter.
WorldofHarley 