Take me to a place both green and blue,
close to where the milling tourists stay.
I want to curse the kissed white marks,
of sea salt on my cheap brown shoes.

I long to wither underneath the warmth,
as scented gardens chirrup along.
The dusty dogs will keep their idle guard,
on winding roads through olive groves.

Feed me plaited bread that's baked
by hands grown wrinkled from the sun.
Buy tomatoes, aubergine and thyme,
from the market's wooden trestle tables.

Smash a wave upon the jagged rocks,
hear the crackle as the wave recedes.
Annouce the glowing summer's carnival;
a paean sung for all the working bees.