Our Very First Season

 

Bit too much heat. I think I fell -
tripped off the warm cream patio, Irish flushed,
still half laugh

Under the white light twining branches
hands reached for me, went from
wavering, feathered, doved
to bound together

and I suddenly remembered, sweetcorn strands
through my fingers, water pooled
between two gazes, lazily fishing
leaves from hair, our hands
smooth continents,

the taste
of tanned shoulder, summer petals
stuck to humid thighs

how we roasted in slats beneath the porch,
the crisp sun striping
your cupped iris-brown -

And then I was lifted from that nook
back through the border of grass
to wood grain, tight change in pressure

I took the laughing hands, buried my own
in newly grass-stained pockets

Here we were young,
hands clasped in secret beneath
the beech sky, promising gardens
and pyres and one dog each, this porch
where I held illusions

as I craved falling,
tastes, persephones; once
we laughed and ripped pale thorns
from the dewy morning casket.

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