Holiday Love

On holiday I dream of love unborn,
of past potential loyalties I meant
to swear, and yet somehow remain unsworn.
Now all is done, my time is better spent

on soaking sun and ouzo by my tent,
than rueing lovers lost, their hearts once torn,
my own, eviscerated, wholly rent.
On holiday I dream of love unborn.

I wake to beauty’s face, the breaking dawn,
can only think of borrowed time I’ve lent
to those whose hours may justify my scorn
of past potential loyalties I meant

to honour more. If I can now repent,
no longer weep for what is lost, or mourn,
will I forget, my heart on love hell-bent,
to swear, and yet somehow remain unsworn?

Why do I play the fool and dumbly fawn
on beach-babes, knowing they are heaven-sent?
Do they compare to Ruth amidst the corn?
Now all is done, my time is better spent

on you, whose anger will not freely vent
on me, whose patience holds a love long-worn
for you, and I am wholly glad we went,
escaping urban London life still-born,
                                           on holiday.