He is her first love,
the love which makes
her want to open her
arms to the early day,

hear bird song, wash
in the cold water the
maid brings, breaking
the ice, her hand scooping

up the coldness to her
face, and the o yes this
is it, feel, in her. Before
him there were only dull

mornings, icy ablutions,
boring birds singing, and
her father lecturing at
the morning table about

the horses or the birds
for the shoot or how well
his dogs hunt. This first love,
this exciting explosion,

this wanting to run through
the fields undressed and
sing loudly, this new born,
fresh as a lamb kind of love,

this tingling through the veins
and nerves feeling, this is
what the poet’s name love,
their words ticking off the

virtues, their voices calling
across shires, hills and seas.
She wants him to come,
wants his arms about her,

his lips on hers, she thinks of
him each moment of her day,
senses him in each touch her
body feels, in each smell of air.

She wants him there. Before him
there was just the routine of daily
visits to the poor of the parish
with he mother’s gossip, picking

of flowers, the dull witted wit of
her tiresome brothers, before this
first love she almost drowned in
the daily drudge, but now she feels

each second’s tick, each moment’s
*****, the over feel of air and breath
and him maybe being there to watch
her dress (unseen of course) and

all the little things that first love brings.
The maid helps her dress, buttons
up at the back, brushes the hair, o
o she wishes it were the first love

there unbuttoning her dress and
making her neatly done hair in a mess.