How desperately people seek,
to air their souls,
on a package holiday, turning flesh once white, into one step closer to skin cancer.
And washing away their worries on cheap booze,
attempting to feel at one with each other under a hotter sun.
Flying home, with pools of vomit for reflection
And knowing that they’ll be back next year,
Because Britain’s weather won’t be any hotter,
and their ignorance any less.