Through fields of drowsing cattle,
moon daisies, stinging nettle,
summer green,
to a village inn:
you, twenty-two,
I, sixteen.
That orchard garden,
the August heat,
small birds raiding currant bushes,
scruffy hens pecking in the dirt.
Then meat pie, new potatoes, runner beans.
Our wobbly table:
a cascade of knives and spoons and forks,
spilt water,
my wet skirt,
your infectious laughter.
(from the "love bites" collection)
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