Even the name, Wittenham Clumps:
a site of witchery. We rolled up
in a hired car – perfect manners, picnic in tow –
the sea of grass parting to make a path.
I was in your words a mere boy,
a thug perhaps, but biddable.
Your talk was supernatural:
ley lines and religion
or gender, which meant womankind.
Sometimes I listened, sometimes
cut a slice of taleggio, and tried to gauge
your cup size through your vest.
The view was late pastoral:
power station, five squat towers.
B-roads laid down between hedgerows.
We stayed until the sun was lost,
until my forearm hairs prickled
with cold you didn’t seem to feel.
I think I was impressed
by you, your commitment to mystery.
Men use love to get sex; women, who knows.
Back at yours, in a red room
my fingers mistook your right breast.
What did I think I was doing?
Good question. I researched the answer
driving back home through the dark
alone – too stunned to use the headlights,
too incensed by your real tears.
