Imagination

One thing I find impossible to imagine in summer is a snowy winter scene. When flowers are bursting out and it's hot in bed I cannot visualise or feel the cold. Maybe this is atavistic and helps us adjust to the procession of seasons. 

The Travellers Return

The Rover's Arms
I'm pestered, goaded, tortured, racked.
It's August and the pub is packed
With journey-making, tedious bores
Who must traipse off to foreign shores
To bring back tans and lurid snaps,
With anecdotes. One day perhaps
When I have had enough to drink
I'll tell them what I really think.
I abominate your tales,
I cannot stomach the details
Of what you ate and where you went
And whom you met and what you spent.
I loathe, reject, detest and spurn
That way you show off your sunburn
And yap with smug complacency.
You are anathema to me.
Why should I empathise or care?
It seems to me that once you're there
You like to feel yourself at home.
Why take the trouble, time to roam
To seek some little bar or dive
That replicates the one that I've
Lurked in all summer? Don't you find
That travelling narrows the mind?