I remember ...
Loch Awe, the bees, buzzing in the heather,
the way you squealed and ran away
whenever one deigned to invade your space.
The way the wine dribbled down the bottle
and you wiped it with your hand –
licked your fingers as it drizzled down your chin
and how profusely my mouth watered.
The picnic basket
with its red and white checked lining,
the plastic knives and forks
you thought were tacky.
You’d expected more from Selfridges,
The purple skirt you were wearing. Beneath its hem,
a petticoat of Breton lace, coyly peeping –
the look of resignation on your face, when the wind
blew the serviettes into the burn
and the way your eyes
mirrored the effervescence of the water
and your hand, cupped your mouth,
the zillionth time you laughed out-loud.
Shoes, discarded – a splash of crimson varnish,
as you waded, barefoot, in a vain attempt of salvage.
How your thighs were my cushions of ivory silk-velvet –
our serenade – the mewl of a buzzard to its mate.
The thirteen tiny buttons
made from mother-of-pearl,
on your crepe-de-chine chemise.
But more, much more than these,
it was the impropriety, the forbiddenness of it all.