AN OLD PHOTO
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.
Originally published in Prole 9