Moonlit, pale, the final
Flotilla rests listless
On the rhythmic water.
Hotel beeches packed
Away. Cicadas chirp.

Locals wearing coats;
I’m holding out in shorts,
Stretching out our time.
Turkish coffee, old men
Slam backgammon counters.

One last walk. Strolling,
Experiences decay.
Reborn as memories.
Attention strays. Earth bound
The flight’s already started.

Our time has come to an end in Marmaris, as has the season. It’s been wonderful, and I’m sad to leave, but there’ll be little left tomorrow.
(10.11.26)

© Ben Quant 2026