Treasure Island

John Rickell

(I November 1931 / York)

Race Course Hollows

We lay in the hollow
by the race-course copse
waiting the harvest moon
as other lovers take their places
in grassy circles like our own.
She was pretty, brunette, tall
lovely legs and thighs
brown green eyes tempting breasts.
talked of music.....
we both sang, often as duet
read the same white pages,
books, Yorkshire churches
cycle rides and country-lanes;
but not here to talk.
Love was in the breeze
intoxicating evening air
the night warm,
murmurs in the dark
rose from other hollows,
late walkers with their dogs
sneaked away not to spoil our fun,
recalling youthful memories,
on their way to home.
We watched them climb the style
alone we used the moon
kissed, breathing scents of skin in love,
forgotten now the country-lanes
Cycle rides and Yorkshire churches
we knew the way by heart,
every turning now explored
been this way before.....
what was round the corner.
So lost ourselves for one brief hour...
all the things that lovers do.
A long reluctant walk to home
glowing in the dark.....
separate beds and houses.
parents sitting by the fire
sneak up the stairs.
shyly say good-night..
smiles beside the fire.

Submitted: Friday, November 08, 2013
Edited: Saturday, November 09, 2013

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