JT 4 LR

By Linda Whitehouse

had the summer been longer

i still wouldn’t have changed

my mind, tempting as it was  

lazing under weeping willows.

your hand, cool on my bare midriff was

an anchor, my sail yet to be unfurled.

ants nibbled our naked feet. your skin

daz white, almost blue, spattered with

freckles, shielded by spiral leaf fronds,

touched with suns-gold, hung over you

like an open parasol.

i did not want protection,

liked to toast my body then dangle

my feet in the icy stream.

you carved our initials

into a tree trunk

with the sharpened end

of your steel tail-comb,

it was a gesture, clearly

marking your territory.

‘i’ll have that tattooed on my arm,’ you said

but the summer wasn’t supposed

to be permanent. i was waiting

to swim up-stream while you were

content to be carried down like a

dead twig.

less than a handful of years later

i heard your mum,

so full of life

when i saw her last, had gone.

i only rang to say i was sorry,

not to upset your wife, the echo

of kids crying in the background.

with your father i was more sensitive,

his ally, the unlit gas oven

repaired his broken heart. i sent a card,

less intrusive.

then suddenly

it was your turn,

news from a mutual friend.

i felt sorry for your wife.