Bacon; 7am

For National Poetry Day

It's carried on the October air;
a fizzing pop of savoury, salt,
fried and turning an unseen pan black.
Someone has a window open
as they cook,
as I trudge towards my working day.
The morning is fresh,
green,
damp underfoot. A tang of
coldness hangs, not unpleasant.
I smell grass too. Dewy, jewelled.
The bacon scent lingers,
mingling with the morning,
and I am not walking to the station,
I am not heavy-shouldered at the thought of work,
I am not an adult,
I am 6,
waking up in a tent with a cartoon-yawn,
putting on tiny cheap flip flops to slick through wet fields,
I am camping, I am transported back to holidays;
I am hungry.