Walking behind you – your chignon, your tanned forearms, your calves, your white, pleated skirt swaying, just the suggestion of that bottom – into a sunlit pub on Wenlock Edge for gin and orange and a pint; watching Macbeth through inexorable drizzle in a Shropshire market town – ‘It will be rain tonight’. ‘Let it come down’; drying off in another pub, hearing someone recite Housman loudly: ‘When smoke stood up from Ludlow…;’ driving home, your sleeping head on my shoulder, your future already in my hands – nearly two generations ago.
Recent Comments