I can't recall
what you played for me
on the piano that day;
your parents we're out
and you had invited me
to tea.
I sat and listened
as you played,
noticing how you swayed
as you played.
After we went out
in the garden
and lay on the grass.
You talked of Florence
and the River Arno
and the art
and the postcard
you sent me.
I told you my book
was soon to be published
and I would dedicate to you.
But that was of no
real importance to me.
It was you
and your nearness
that occupied my mind.
It seemed odd;
like an illness,
yet I called it love,
love of you.
"But you don't know me,"
you said.
"I feel not know;
what can knowledge
do of love?"
I said.
You spoke
of Shakespeare's lilies.
I breathed you in
as you lay there;
drank each aspect of you
into my mind and heart.
We kissed:
a long kiss.
Then you took my hand
and we left the garden
and climbed the stairs.
You were breathing hard
as if you and I had raced
the fields and hills.
We kissed again
by your bed
and we began
to undress.
A car drew up
in the drive.
"They are back;
my parents,"
you whispered
anxiously.
We dressed hurriedly,
and sat back on the sofa
just as they came in.
Your father nodded
and went to the kitchen,
your mother came past us
with that knowing grin.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 7:33 AM UTC
I can't recall
what you played for me
on the piano that day;
your parents we're out
and you had invited me
to tea.
I sat and listened
as you played,
noticing how you swayed
as you played.
After we went out
in the garden
and lay on the grass.
You talked of Florence
and the River Arno
and the art
and the postcard
you sent me.
I told you my book
was soon to be published
and I would dedicate to you.
But that was of no
real importance to me.
It was you
and your nearness
that occupied my mind.
It seemed odd;
like an illness,
yet I called it love,
love of you.
"But you don't know me,"
you said.
"I feel not know;
what can knowledge
do of love?"
I said.
You spoke
of Shakespeare's lilies.
I breathed you in
as you lay there;
drank each aspect of you
into my mind and heart.
We kissed:
a long kiss.
Then you took my hand
and we left the garden
and climbed the stairs.
You were breathing hard
as if you and I had raced
the fields and hills.
We kissed again
by your bed
and we began
to undress.
A car drew up
in the drive.
"They are back;
my parents,"
you whispered
anxiously.
We dressed hurriedly,
and sat back on the sofa
just as they came in.
Your father nodded
and went to the kitchen,
your mother came past us
with that knowing grin.
Sunday, tea, love 1974
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