Vacation

If I tell you now:
"Grab your suitcases! We're off."
I'll savour your eyes,
startled and questioning.
And I'll smile.

We won't be going on some holiday.
First we'll go to the Golden Lion
and gaze at the canals in the mornings.

Then we'll board
one of those big ships
that hold all the luxury in the world,
and we'll just stay out on deck
taking pictures of fjords.

And on the twentieth day,
chilled to the bone and content,
we'll fly off to South Africa.
We'll barge in as guests
on my favourite cousin,
whom I haven't heard from
in twenty years.
Before we get hold of
a clapped-out old jeep
and tear off inland
towards the mines and the plateaus.

And we won't come back.
A whole winter long.
From there we'll go on to Zanzibar
to live a while on the sandy beaches
a whole summer long.
We'll fish and we'll swim
until we're sick of the wild.

And in autumn we'll stand a drink each
to the girls in Taiwan.
And we'll smile at their offers.
You never know what may happen to you
in Taiwan. Whatever you make happen. Other times, whatever they make happen to you.

And the islands of the Pacific?
And South America?
Of course, but go to sleep now, it's late,
and tomorrow I'll go on telling you.