Behind the annexe classrooms,
under the sycamore tree,
one old penny for a cheek peck
from Margaret and Maureen McGhee.
On the stage at the girls’ school,
the cast long gone to town,
swapping spit with lonely Clare,
because her eyes were brown.
Snogging at the bus stop
the pubs were long closed
I struck the chimes at midnight
on the buttons of her clothes.
After two too many cheering drinks
in the arms of a close friend,
I thought of telling her husband,
but we never spoke again.
Our passionate hour has ticked away;
we’re diminished by this loss.
We hide our needs in slippered love,
where a kiss is just a cross.