Wednesday, 25 September 2013


That’s my first love sitting sipping tea
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.
          Wynn Wheldon

A poem published last year in the utterly brilliant Prole (Issue 9)

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