I watch
as Yehudit
walks towards me,
the sway of her hips,
her hair held back
with grips,
her blue eyes lowered,
her hands
in the pockets
of her dark green coat.
It's late November,
chill winds,
greying sky;
we meet on the edge
of the woods.
Got held up,
she says,
Mum wanted me
to help fold
the washing.
She knows you're here
meeting me?
Yes, of course,
although didn't
say where;
she assumes
it's at your house
with your mother
keeping an eye.
She looks towards
the wood.
May have been
a better idea,
than out here,
she says.
We can go
to my place
if you like,
my mother
won't mind.
Then we won't
be alone.
Yehudit looks at me.
We can always sit
in the front lounge,
I suggest,
no one goes
in there much.
She looks
at the woods.
Ok, then,
your house it is.
We make our way
towards the house,
through the back gate,
in through
the back door.
My mother's at the stove,
preparing dinner,
steam rising
from the pots and pans.
Ok, if we go
through to
the front lounge?
I ask her.
Hello, Yehudit;
sure you can,
she says,
watching as we walk
through the middle room
into the front lounge
and close the door.
We sit in
the two seater settee.
Her hand finds mine.
We're next to each other.
No wind, no rain,
just us, alone;
outside
the pitter patter
of rain,
and the wind's moan.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 4:33 AM UTC
I watch
as Yehudit
walks towards me,
the sway of her hips,
her hair held back
with grips,
her blue eyes lowered,
her hands
in the pockets
of her dark green coat.
It's late November,
chill winds,
greying sky;
we meet on the edge
of the woods.
Got held up,
she says,
Mum wanted me
to help fold
the washing.
She knows you're here
meeting me?
Yes, of course,
although didn't
say where;
she assumes
it's at your house
with your mother
keeping an eye.
She looks towards
the wood.
May have been
a better idea,
than out here,
she says.
We can go
to my place
if you like,
my mother
won't mind.
Then we won't
be alone.
Yehudit looks at me.
We can always sit
in the front lounge,
I suggest,
no one goes
in there much.
She looks
at the woods.
Ok, then,
your house it is.
We make our way
towards the house,
through the back gate,
in through
the back door.
My mother's at the stove,
preparing dinner,
steam rising
from the pots and pans.
Ok, if we go
through to
the front lounge?
I ask her.
Hello, Yehudit;
sure you can,
she says,
watching as we walk
through the middle room
into the front lounge
and close the door.
We sit in
the two seater settee.
Her hand finds mine.
We're next to each other.
No wind, no rain,
just us, alone;
outside
the pitter patter
of rain,
and the wind's moan.
A BOY AND GIRL ONE COLD NOVEMBER IN 1962.
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