Crossing the Alps
On a plane, over dizzying white purity,
a seven-year old's first package holiday.
Glimpsing impossible peaks then
minuscule villages with monstrous
cataracts from heart-ache glaciers.
Jesus! Off to Tunisia, how the 1970s
opened up, from flat orange browns
to cobalt blues and towel-gowns.
I got burned in Hammamet, awoke
convinced a Tsunami was breaking.
No worries. Dad bought me Roman coins
in Carthage. He smuggled them through
Tunis customs hidden in his old socks –
as if they gave a toss.
Luton Airport – that was the Mecca
for travel – with colours which hurt
and queues to the carpark. In truth,
the architecture was such a glory,
ugly for sure but just optimism,
not spoilt-brat irony.
Copyright © Paul Sutton, 2021.