Walking home from the pub

on this warm autumn evening, I turn into a back street. Trees obscure the street lights, and everything's quiet except for the lazy sound of cicadas. Suddenly I'm dreaming about camping with you.
You. Taking the sticks I've collected from my arms and squatting down to build a fire.
Going to bed early in a deserted national park camping ground.
Me, tidying the rumpled sleeping bags while you make the morning cuppa.
And then I walk around the corner, into the lights and traffic and people of King St, and my dream dissolves with a hiss in the hard acidity of reality.