28.

Today the turquoise view
swoops faster, swirls like lime juice in a cold glass,
the bay flashes, tumescent, a noon-time joy, steep to the side.
The early moon a pale slice in blue. Scent of manure and hay blow,
sheep wink, coastline trees like brown twiggy hair blowing sideways.
My David’s a pebble of strength too bright,
too smooth to be flung.
Nothing’s certain but changing landmarks, sifting coves.
We’re aware of each other’s breathing; the Mini’s forced nearness,
the sun catching his knuckles, freckled wrist, silver watch,
his quiet shifting of the gears, dusty brown Topsiders stepping hard
on the gas          rising      high.
And down
to the mossy,
valley house. A white block
windowed memory.
We click still.
A net curtain moves.

Before I meet his mother
he takes me
among his father’s rocky fields,
shows me how to swindle
honey from a hive.
With a cigarette ‘just for this purpose
he puffed acrid smoke like an old rusty engine.
A slow thrum,
the sound of tiny drills.
The conquered Gwenynen Fêl
short up, away into the blue,
her drones chasing like a chorus of boy-lovers.
I had been hungry.
He gave me the first sticky comb.