Nostalgia

What is this bit of longing that I can almost catch?
I feel it well inside me, and have to pause.
Remembering the textures and smells of lost summer days,
The dust of a fairground, the swell of a crowd.
River flowing swiftly, oh and it is cold too,
But still, it cradles our fish bodies,
Cooling, some comfort on the burning day.
I nearly wish to be back there,
Pavement heating my bare feet,
Feet used to the gravel of the road bed,
Not pausing as I ran full tilt across the field.
Wishful thinking for the heat,
Only comforted slightly by the drink from the hose.
I could wish for more, but this would suffice.