Christina, dressed in her grey school jumper,
grey skirt, white blouse and green tie,
met Benedict by the wire fence,
which separated the playground
from the sports field.  She looked excited
as he approached, he walked
his Robert Mitchum style walk,
met her with a smile, a scanning gaze,
taking in her eyes and hair and legs
and hands folded, standing there.

Guess what, she said, I've got an
Elvis Presley LP. Benedict nodded
and listened while she spoke.

Her mother had bought it for her
while in a good mood( she suffered
depression), though her father
didn't approve, he allowed her
to play on the new Hi-Fi.

Maybe you can come hear sometime,
she said, the when and how were
not discussed, she living in the town
and he some miles on a bus route away,
but maybe, he said, someday.

They walked up the field,
the other kids enjoying
the midday recess in the bright sun
and cloudless sky, her hand
gripping his, he taking in
her soft speaking and hips sway.

She conversed on the boring maths
she'd had, the domestic science
where she'd burnt her cake, who'd
eat it anyway, for Christ-sake,
she added, giving him her eyes
to drink, her words to hold and think.

He spoke in turn of geography
and woodwork where he began a stool,
thanking her for her photo she'd given
him to keep, tuck between his favourite
book at home, taking out to scan
and treasure, now and then( such
is the way of boys and men).

She spoke of love, the feelings touched,
the mind excited, her dreams of him,
talking in her sleep( her mother said).

He stared out at the other kids at play
or wandering in talk or playing ball
or skipping-rope, a teacher spying as
he crossed the grass, hands behind his back.

She leaned in close and kissed his cheek,
he turned and kissed her lips
to smother any further words.

Someone laughed out loud,
across the field, disturbing birds.