That’s my first love sitting sipping teaWynn Wheldon
in her parents’ garden, smiling at me.
Around her neck she wears a violet scarf.
Her frock is virgin white; and you may laugh
but the symbols were rich for me. I thought
we might discover sex together, bought
her Lawrence stories, marked out for her one
in which the heroine is penetrated by the sun.
To no avail. I failed to win her round
and she gave herself to someone sound,
someone certainly with better looks
who did not euphemise desire with books.
A poem published last year in the utterly brilliant Prole (Issue 9)