Under the green skirt of the sycamore
we kissed, or loved in other ways.
We asked no questions, had no need.
The sky was china-blue, like all the summers
of our youth: cloudless, undemanding.
We came to love too easily those days,
not thunder-struck or lightning-shot
but something underwritten, guaranteed.
A contract we agreed indulgently
like pouring double cream on strawberries
or shutting out the night-cry with the cat
as if some simple act could silence it.
That piercing cat-call should have woken us.
We walked those years like sleepers do,
sensing blindly where our feet should fall.
The shanty house we built out on the branch;
wild blossom thrown like rice at other kids;
your father’s voice; late sunlight on a pool:
these carried us through years of innocence
and into times that took us by surprise,
too rough to measure on our little scale.
You can still find details of my first collection with Bloodaxe Books here, though it is now out of print.