I do not think of sandy beaches

Of wind swept cliffs

Nor briny seas.

Summer sun holds no place

Instead I think of sterile white rooms,

Of trailing wires and beige corridors.

Of the rasping smell of antiseptic,

And machinery attached to flesh

With adhesive patch.

And though I would rather think

Of Arthur’s birth,

And Merlin’s cave

Instead my own ghosts walk with me still.