We all carry a map in our heads.
When’s, where’s, with whom’s.
Where we stayed that year, last year.
Where we will stay (or own) one day.
Bright pins point out destinations: Digey, Smeatons, Nanjizal.
Our map is a blur of trodden paths over the decades,
Every footfall recorded, ice cream dated and deep breath taken.
In St Ives we are orientated. All the bends, stones, grooved rocks.
It is ours.
© Tom Tide 2016