Saturday, 2 January 2016

Strawberry Willow

Sally-Ann lived past the marina, past where house boats
were moored along the opposite bank with names like
Blackberry or Demetrius or Foxglove Lil
Her family owned a farmhouse on Cooper's Hill
where the cows had long departed and the tin roof
of the milking shed had rusted over and fallen in.
Her parents were posh – too posh to be concerned
by the likes of a punk-haired youth sniffing around
their blonde and blue-eyed daughter. We met in secret
before mobile phones progressed beyond backpacks;
a series of codes in her bedroom window, visible
from the canal towpath that connected our houses.
There was no relationship. We both had other partners
who lived away and we met only in the evenings
as the sun sank into the pondweed and the midges
danced in our hair. She smelled of lemon cake
and wore the sweetest white socks and panties
but the sweetest of her kisses were reserved
for a boy I can no longer even picture in my mind.

© Rachel Green 2016

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