Childhood holidays,
brimming with expectation
of adventures,
and countryside exploration
without time limit.
A winding train track
cut through
blackberry bushes,
already advertising
their autumnal promise.
Farm gathered milk
in steel cans,
cream frothed and satisfying.
Clouds gathered unnoticed
until the downpour drove us
undercover.
There we sat
in the ancient caravan,
a family of four
around a tiny table,
playing cards
and wistfully waiting
for adventures to return.
Long rained drenched Devon days
stretched out seemingly unstoppable.
We searched the sky for hope,
but none came.
In the end we traveled home,
wet tarpaulin and tired children,
to return to being warm and dry.
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