The Skirt
7
You stood in your florid skirt,
Your cheeks were flushed and fervent.
Whilst I would pass you secretly,
For fear of acting churlish.
Dancing in Trafalgar shallows,
Your tights are torn and sullied.
Your golden locks were then a bob,
That swayed amongst that flurry.
The dancing girl that stole my heart
You never heard my heartfelt plea.
The golden locks of Trafalgar square
In the lovelorn summer of 93.
17
The beat of bells that marked the hour,
The sparks that set the year anew,
The face that stole my gaze afresh,
That hair of gold and eyes of blue.
The veins of light that streaked the sky,
That stole your view away from me,
The cracks against the black of night,
Shot your body endlessly.
The skittish girl who held my gaze
You stood alone upon the street,
I traced your shape upon my heart
The first love of my teenage me.
27
Familiar curves of pallid flesh,
The fall of breath that cooled my sweat,
Our fingers locked and bodies bare,
Your lips were dry and palms were wet.
As I feel your kiss’ weight,
Your shoulders press against my chest.
A smiles creases beneath my watch,
The ripe of blossom in your breast.
The naked girl within my arms,
Who in the morning wore my shirt,
In amongst her clothes there lay,
That once familiar florid skirt.
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