The Drying Of Hair. Poem by Terry Collett

Jane's mother gave you both
a towel from the airing cupboard

after you had been caught
in the rain

running from the church porch
to the parsonage

and then she went off
to carry on

with her pie making
and Jane took you

along the hallway
to her bedroom

and opened the door
and after you had entered

she closed the door
with a soft click

and you both stood there
in the quiet room

rubbing you heads
with the towels

pushing away
the wetness

from your hair
and you smelt the room

the smell of polish
the lavender scent

the smell
of fresh linen

and smell of the flowers
outside caught still

in the rain
and Jane said

You are only here
because she trusts you

she seems to see through
people's veneer

and weighs them
in the scales

in her mind
and you stood still

rubbing your hair
looking at her

the way she had
the towel in her hands

over her hair
the hair all messed up

and she having
that sparkle in her eyes

like the first spear
of the sunshine

pushing through
the window at dawn

and she gazed at you
with her eyes

like polished marbles
and her words

hung there
on the air

like musical notes
on an invisible stave

and you said
I'm glad she trusts me on

just the one look
and Jane smiled

and kissed your lips
her flesh on yours

and the pressing
of skin on skin

and she gently
moved away

and pointed to the sky
and said

Looks like more rain
and you just nodded

wanting her to kiss you
once again.