Honeymoon
"There's a law against
taking a girl into a bean-field."
Evening skims our open car. " Never been
repealed.
The musk of its flowers arouses such desire
women fall prey to its languorous power.
Has he made it up? Our
marriage only eight hours old.
Around us fields spread groundsheets of gold
as we speed eastward, leaving friends
at a loss. What to do with the day's
fag-end.
It's June. Sweetness of
hay on the air,
dog-roses in the hedge. We go where
the road takes us. Hotels all full
with Newmarket racegoers. A single at the
Bull,
a mattress on the floor
hastily improvised,
my hat placed firmly on the bed as befits the
bride,
your case on the other. Later we linger over a
meal.
A vast bouquet. You must have done the
deal
at reception. They're the
flowers from the desk.
My tongue savours salmon, moist texture of
flesh,
relishing your hands as you pour the wine,
Spilled light on the table, the last rays of
sun.