Where are you going, Jane?
Your mother said that morning.
Going to see Benny, you replied.
You see Benny now sitting on
the gate to the field; he is in his
blue jeans and black Wellington
boots, a white open neck shirt.
You wonder whether to tell him
you dreamed of him the night
before; whether to say nothing
and keep it to yourself. It had
been a lovely dream, and when
you woke up you wanted to go
back to sleep and enter the dream
again, but then you dreamed of
something else. He sees you
coming and climbs down from
the gate. You feel self conscious
as if he could enter your mind and
share your thoughts; you blush slightly.
How are you? He asks. I am fine,
you say, taking in his hazel eyes,
the quiff of brown hair, his smile
that some girls say is an Elvis smile.
You stand before him and hesitate;
wanting to kiss him; wanting him
to kiss you. I've been helping with
the milking on the farm this morning,
he says. That's good for an ex-London
boy, you say, smiling, seeing him look
at you. I have surprised myself, he says,
A few months ago, I didn't know a cow
from a bull. Shall I tell him about the
dream? You want to, but what will he say?
You talk to him about a bullfinch you
had seen that morning at the vicarage,
its colouring, the way it sat there in a bush.
He suggests going up the Downs; you
agree and begin to walk beside him back
along the narrow road and up the track
towards the Downs. He talks of his father
working in the woods a mile away; about
the time his father took him with him and
how he found skeletons of rabbits
and birds. You watch him sideways
on; wanting to tell him of the dream;
wanting him to kiss you. He looks
up, points to the sky through the tall
trees, it's a bright washed out blue.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 3:28 PM UTC
Where are you going, Jane?
Your mother said that morning.
Going to see Benny, you replied.
You see Benny now sitting on
the gate to the field; he is in his
blue jeans and black Wellington
boots, a white open neck shirt.
You wonder whether to tell him
you dreamed of him the night
before; whether to say nothing
and keep it to yourself. It had
been a lovely dream, and when
you woke up you wanted to go
back to sleep and enter the dream
again, but then you dreamed of
something else. He sees you
coming and climbs down from
the gate. You feel self conscious
as if he could enter your mind and
share your thoughts; you blush slightly.
How are you? He asks. I am fine,
you say, taking in his hazel eyes,
the quiff of brown hair, his smile
that some girls say is an Elvis smile.
You stand before him and hesitate;
wanting to kiss him; wanting him
to kiss you. I've been helping with
the milking on the farm this morning,
he says. That's good for an ex-London
boy, you say, smiling, seeing him look
at you. I have surprised myself, he says,
A few months ago, I didn't know a cow
from a bull. Shall I tell him about the
dream? You want to, but what will he say?
You talk to him about a bullfinch you
had seen that morning at the vicarage,
its colouring, the way it sat there in a bush.
He suggests going up the Downs; you
agree and begin to walk beside him back
along the narrow road and up the track
towards the Downs. He talks of his father
working in the woods a mile away; about
the time his father took him with him and
how he found skeletons of rabbits
and birds. You watch him sideways
on; wanting to tell him of the dream;
wanting him to kiss you. He looks
up, points to the sky through the tall
trees, it's a bright washed out blue.
