I haven't booked for Spain this year,
Or skiing or a river cruise.
I thought about a health spa, but
The break that I would rather choose
Is novel and unorthodox
And lacking any airport fee,
For what I'd really like is this:
A holiday from being me.
I’d find somebody’s shoes to fill,
Embrace their personality,
Then slot into their daily round:
A different slant on ordinary.
I’d see the sky through other eyes.
Intrigued, I'd listen to a bird.
Would sky-blue be a darker shade
Or lark-song as I’ve always heard?
I'd clear my throat then try my voice,
Express my ever-changing moods
(That might be quite surprising!)
And some unexpected attitudes.
I'd look around inside my head,
Beneath the unfamiliar hair,
And ponder all the memories and
Secrets that were lodging there.
Perhaps I'd wear outlandish clothes,
Feel alien, yet oddly free,
And ask myself which I preferred:
The me that wasn’t me, or me.
And so I’d spend my time away −
Perspective altered, life askew −
And when two weeks were up, return
To my accustomed point of view.
I’d hope to find a cheerful host
Who liked to sing and laugh and dance,
Because I’d be on holiday!
(Or maybe I'll just go to France.)