The wistful ache of final farewells,
a sadness, blended with homeward joy,
that always builds as holidays end.

One last stroll along your ochre sands,
and clamber up your cacti cliffs,
to feel your breath upon my face.

Take summer shirts from where they hang
and fold them in our sandy bags.
Another sweep to clear the room.

And just like that it’s over.
(09.11.24)

© Ben Quant 2024