Forbidden Fruits

His dark curls entered
my life before he did – like
a male Medusa with those eyes
could turn a woman to stone,
or melt the snow off any
Polar ice-cap, in the days
of picnics, and friends
and hanging out in disused
timber yards along the Lea.

How he smiled at me, once...
being almost serious, for a change,
but for so long, and so intently
it had made me blush. He rode off
then, on his bike...after what seemed
an age...along the bank toward
Tottenham Lock, and I followed...
although he didn’t once look back;
cock-sure of himself, as he was.

Then he stopped...pulled down
the branch of some tree – held it
to his nose; his sleeve rolled up.
I recall the brownness of his arm –
a snake tattoo... the flimsiness
of his shirt...how I could see –
right through it – half undone,
from the waist and though
I couldn’t see his face, I knew
that smile was still there, hovering
above me like paper-wasps
in glorious abundance.

‘Cherry Plums’ he said they were,
and I thought he’d made it up...but
he hadn’t, so I learned later. Not
into nature – not then. Scared,
though I was, I let him put one
between my lips; I was committed then,
and knew it, to something I wasn’t quite
sure off. The juice ran down my chin –
and he licked it off; the sweetest fruit
I’d ever tasted.