The Lure of Balmy Breezes

Quote: An expert is a man who tells you a simple thing in a confused way in such a fashion as to make you think the confusion is your own fault. ~ William Castle


The Lure of Balmy Breezes

“Darling,” Sian

Sian is the welsh form of Jane: pronounced Shawn

asked across the dinner plate.
“Are we going to Spain soon, or will we wait?”
The newspaper crackled, Rhys

Rhys is an ancient name that has become popular recently. It means enthusiastic and is pronounced Rees

gave a great sigh
“I’m sorry,” he said, “not till interest rates rise."

"This year, like most Welshmen, we’ll be staying home.
Sterling has fallen, we can’t afford to roam.
It all started,” Rhys claimed, “with investment banks,
lending vast sums to uncollateralled Yanks."

"Now confidence has dropped to an all-time low.
No one’s lending, no one’s spending; I don’t know
how far house values will fall, with cash so rare.
Things will only get worse, so we must take care.”

“But we’ve saved that money,” Sian softly replied,
holding back the salt tears that threatened to slide.
“I’ve been waiting all year for some sun and sea.
Surely we’ve saved enough for this wee treat?”

Sitting with hands clasped, she was told the world’s woes,
staring at the slate roofs of wet Llandudno.
An investment expert, yet he couldn't see,
she needed this break, like the wind needs the tree.

These dark winter days, they were strangling her soul.
She longed to swim naked through azure shallows.
To sip golden nectar and laze in the sun;
cook fish on a fire when the day’s work was done.

Hear whispering palm leaves, the lapping of sea,
smell jasmine, and lilac, and frangipani.
To feel balmy breezes caress her damp skin.
Enjoy a lover’s kiss, then give a sly grin.

While Rhys was still reading she cleared up the plates.
Alone in the kitchen she called her best mate.
“Gwyn

Gwyn, a welsh girl's name that can also be used for boys; means white, smooth, or fair.

," she whispered, “you’re still going to Greece?
I know its next week, but could I get a seat?"

A week later she stood at Gwyn’s front door,
satchel in hand, a bulging case on the floor.
Clutching her tickets, a flame leapt in her heart.
Small steps, then big steps, all to make a new start.

“Did you tell him you’re going?” Sian shook her head.
“Won’t he think you’ve gone mad, or got yourself dead?”
“He’s a world-wide expert,” Sian said with a pout.
“No wife, no suitcase, I think he’ll work it out.”


40 lines.