Sheep wool entangled
in the barbwire
on the Downs
at the top
and you and Jane
laying there
taking in the sun
and the blue of sky
and white of clouds
the soft grass
beneath you
she pointing
at birds overhead
naming them
laughing
when you got
the name wrong
her moving fingers
the hand waving there
and you talking
of the dullness
of London
by comparison
it unknown to her
the big city
the traffic
the noise
the smell
and she there
beside you
her grey skirt
tucked about her
her white blouse
open at the neck
the impression
of *******
her profile
as you turned
and gazed
the dark hair
embracing
her jaw line
the eyes gazing upward
her white socks
the old shoes
the sight of legs
from shoes
to hem of skirt
the beat of heart
your heart pumping
the sight of her
the closeness
and her voice
in the air your
hand reaching out
to touch her arm
inching outward
your fingertips
and her fingertips
feel and fold
and entangle
and release
and entangle
and she said
that cloud formation
is like an enormous god
opening arms
you looked
and frowned
and that one there
she said
is like an angel
with white wings
you gazed
at her lips moving
that one there
you said pointing
is like Santa Claus
running naked
to the beach
and she laughed
and there was the echo
of her laughter
all over the space
of Downs
her fingers
holding yours
touching
not quite Michelangelo
as art
but at least
some union
of heart
moving heart.