She didn’t cook she warned me,

I mustn’t expect too much.

She needn’t have worried


I watched and waited . . .

Listened to her nervous chatter,

Mesmerized by her pale loveliness.


We sat on her sofa.

She kissed me, then said she shouldn’t.

Too late . . . the kissing had commenced.


In truth, we couldn’t stop.

So we kissed and kissed,

And what kisses they were . . . .


Long and languid, lying in bed

Covered by duvets and dogs.

A curtain of cherry blossom at the window.


Cold and wet, shivering on Clacton Pier

As the rain poured through the boardwalk

Into the churning sea below


Fierce and urgent, in shop doorways,

In dark deserted Soho streets.

Waylaid by desire on the way home.


Snatched, between courses . . . .

Of dinner served to oblivious friends,

Amidst dirty dishes and bubbling pans.


Aflame, on the fire escape

During the too short intervals,

Of Tristan and Isolde.


A kaleidoscope of kisses

Wherever, whenever we wanted

Until, satiated, we stopped.