Not the laughter in the bed
that woke the lady of the house,
not the giggling in the church
that caused the supplicants to sigh,
not the bishop in his scarlet robes
who turned to catch your eye,
not the incense of the flowers
in the hedgerows wafting by,
not the first view of the sea
between the pink Norfolk tiles,
not the acrid tang of kippers
nor the freshness of the crab.


But the image I remember
as we gulled down to the sea
was the time you took your hat off
let your hair out, shook it free,
and you shook it and you bossed it,
in the wind your mane you tossed it,
and I laughed and punched the air,
as you slayed me with that hair,
when we pedalled down to Blakeney
by the sea.








Posted on

April 22, 2014