CHRISTINA AND BENEDICT AND THE KISS.

A BOY AND GIRL IN 1962 ANS A MIDDAY RECESS KISS.

Christina, dressed in her grey school jumper,

grey skirt, white blouse and green tie,

met Benedict by the wire fence,

which separated the playground

from the sports field. She looked excited

as he approached, he walked

his Robert Mitchum style walk,

met her with a smile, a scanning gaze,

taking in her eyes and hair and legs

and hands folded, standing there.

Guess what, she said, I've got an

Elvis Presley LP. Benedict nodded

and listened while she spoke.

Her mother had bought it for her

while in a good mood( she suffered

depression), though her father

didn't approve, he allowed her

to play on the new Hi-Fi.

Maybe you can come hear sometime,

she said, the when and how were

not discussed, she living in the town

and he some miles on a bus route away,

but maybe, he said, someday.

They walked up the field,

the other kids enjoying

the midday recess in the bright sun

and cloudless sky, her hand

gripping his, he taking in

her soft speaking and hips sway.

She conversed on the boring maths

she'd had, the domestic science

where she'd burnt her cake, who'd

eat it anyway, for Christ-sake,

she added, giving him her eyes

to drink, her words to hold and think.

He spoke in turn of geography

and woodwork where he began a stool,

thanking her for her photo she'd given

him to keep, tuck between his favourite

book at home, taking out to scan

and treasure, now and then( such

is the way of boys and men).

She spoke of love, the feelings touched,

the mind excited, her dreams of him,

talking in her sleep( her mother said).

He stared out at the other kids at play

or wandering in talk or playing ball

or skipping-rope, a teacher spying as

he crossed the grass, hands behind his back.

She leaned in close and kissed his cheek,

he turned and kissed her lips

to smother any further words.

Someone laughed out loud,

across the field, disturbing birds.