Long summer days soaked in rain can be boring.
Autumn is nearing. Some people are snoring.
Sleep is ensnaring these people who feel
That by hibernating they'll get a good deal,

A cheap package holiday, far from this land,
Where oceans of blue meet the soft golden sand,
Where they'll dig for gold and they'll find it with ease.
They'll find rolled-up cheques in the holes of their cheese.

They'll spend all this money and keep finding more,
Cash that is stashed underneath their room's floor,
Coins that fall out of the holes in the ceiling.
They'll never be burdened by thoughts that they're stealing.

They won't get hangovers or painful diseases.
They'll dance until dawn and they'll play pool with Jesus.
The young, rich and famous, and James's giant peach
Fill holiday tales of their days on the beach,

Where beautiful people with Hollywood smiles
Wear all sorts of swimsuits in thousands of styles.
None can be seen, unless you look closely.
Expensive bikinis appear faint and ghostly.

I've tried hibernating through June and July.
I can't seem to dream about being somewhere dry.
I dream of a sad, dreary holiday in
A caravan that looks a lot like a bin.

I spend many hours looking out at the rain,
Or else looking down at a Santa-shaped stain.
I venture outside with a hood on my head
And spend many hours looking inside instead.

When I get bored, I go for a stroll.
Before I get far I encounter a hole
That's full of rain water reflecting the sky
Where only the lonely, forlorn blackbirds fly.

Next to the hole there's a pole in the ground.
It holds an old sign that is bound to astound,
With some information. The hole's history
Is briefly outlined for the tourists like me.

This fine hole was built back in 1908.
Sometimes historians question this date.
The workers who made it from sand, earth and clay
Built an asylum not too far away.

That building's long gone but the hole still remains,
The favourite child of exceptional brains.
I take a few photos, despite the bad light.
The flash makes a sorrowful magpie take flight.

It's now getting late. It's time to go back
Before the dark grey in the sky fades to black.
My dinner is waiting inside a tin can.
I'll have tea and biscuits in my caravan.

These dreams have a basis in some past events,
Memories of sleeping inside leaking tents,
Or caravan trips when the rain fell in torrents,
And I wished I'd chosen a fortnight in Florence.

Instead I was stuck in a dark, rural Venice,
Where all I could do was hum tunes or play tennis.
I'd no one to play with. The ball wasn't round.
And it wouldn't bounce on the watery ground.

I visited holes and historical walls,
But none would return my deformed tennis balls.
I went to see places where buildings once stood,
And spent hours inspecting the back of my hood.

But I keep returning. Next week I'll be sitting
In my caravan, thinking of knitting,
Or seeing how long I can stare at a sock,
Or going to see a potato-shaped rock.