Fall, fall hard, with every cell of your being
Smack into it
Let it seep and fill, congest your thought
Your eyes turn to owls
Your ears turn to bats
Feel the weight of a million clouds trapped
They will blow your body apart
From trigger and touch
Compression of love

After school in summer. An abandoned railway line, through a forest. A grey dress with red flowers on, the blue cardigan with sweat patches under the arms. Trying to conceal them. Not caring after a while. Walking in front, through the wild garlic. Not everything flourishing, some ******* here and there. The muddy ***** up to the track. Scrambling up trying not to get hands muddy, trying not to fall. Probably wearing impractical shoes. She was behind me, beside me. Catching her smell, trying to touch her hand, her shoulder. Talking about things that meant nothing but flowed: began and concluded satisfactorily. Only 17, so long ago. No doubt we talked of school, I don’t remember a word. It was the action, the structure of our communication, that was all I had. The unsaid was still sacred then. Reaching the end of the line. The line! It was a beautiful day, romanticized now. Warm in the sun and chill in the shade but I soon discarded temperature. The green from the trees came up from each side of the line and joined together at the top. The sun soaked through every visible article. All, except from the wall at the end that closed off the tunnel.

The space we were in did not exist to anyone else, no one was there, and no one had ever been there since we arrived. Vacuum packed world of complete perfection, apart from the mud, and the *******. But that was ok. The wall was black and heavy and cold. Near the top there was a hole. A square hole had been left or made through the ancient bricks, something forgotten maybe? Or to serve some forgotten purpose? I saw a challenger. The hole said ‘If you beat me you can have her’. It was not sinister. That did not exist.

Again I stood in front. ‘Bet I can get a stone into that hole!’ 15 feet perhaps or maybe only 8. Her eyes were on me: I desperately hoped they were. The whole of the back of my body took them in, I lit up with the warmth and the look. I would like to say it took only three attempts, that seems unlikely. What was she thinking? Was she looking on at the hole or at me? Heaven forbid she was looking at neither. I picked up stone after stone. They varied in size, feel, and dirtiness. I was an excellent thrower. I could throw a javelin, a ball, a boy; I adored my skill. My exuberance and elation guaranteed success. This was not a day for losing. Not while I could sift out the anomalies and incompatibilities without pain. There wouldn’t be a losing day until I understood that I did not yet know me.

The moment I succeeded in my challenge the celebration could begin. The rock perhaps made a sound as it tumbled down the inside of the wall but I did not hear. All my senses were now hers. Absorbed, obsessed. I was now permitted to turn around; to accept the look of admiration, or more. It was joy, certainly. Utter, complete joy. In skipping towards her she offered me her arms…… What words are given to unqualified human happiness? Getting more than you hoped for is even beyond that.