That Summer
Without Prejudice
It was Summer, the tail end. The day had been sunlight burning, and yet now the Windows streamed on the inside with steam from the dinner I had started preparing,
and you slept.
I looked out at the grey stone driveway now slick with rain through the misted Windows and thought of the beginning. How different it had been. We ran through the streets of Windsor, hand in hand, of that long ago Summer, drunk on beer and lust and each other.
We fell in to the front gardens of terraced houses, on to the cool grass and kissed open mouthed, laughing and kissing until we ran out of breath. We fumbled with each other's clothes in the semi dark night and cared little if people saw us. One couple did, as they walked past, walking their Bully and the young man gave a whistle.
We meandered back to your flat in Glen Iris with its tree lined Avenues. The one next to yours had trees that entwined over each other, up high and we walked its length as if entering a sacred place, a secret arbour. Ours for that moment. A verdant hushed guard of honour, just for us.
The houses Grand. The driveways long and meticulously maintained, bluestone mostly and carriage lamps lighting up the front verandah with a warm yellow glow, speaking to me of money and comfort and memories of England.
We stumbled our way to your tiny second floor flat, with its minuscule balcony and kitchen. And we played music that we both loved. The Chieftains, Celtic Woman, Van Morrison, Kris Kristofferson and Charley Pride.
Old fashioned songs for you, that your Dad had loved and mine too. But then my Dad had loved all music. Perry Como, Tennessee Ernie Ford, Patty Paige, Ray Charles, Merle Haggard, Kris Kristofferson, Frank Sinatra.
Deco came home and told us to turn it down and we did and then went to bed in your tiny room and made all the noise in the world until he threw a shoe at the wall and roared at us to shut up.
We giggled like naughty school kids, misbehaving and kept on misbehaving but
It was Summer, the tail end. The day had been sunlight burning, and yet now the Windows streamed on the inside with steam from the dinner I had started preparing,
and you slept.
I looked out at the grey stone driveway now slick with rain through the misted Windows and thought of the beginning. How different it had been. We ran through the streets of Windsor, hand in hand, of that long ago Summer, drunk on beer and lust and each other.
We fell in to the front gardens of terraced houses, on to the cool grass and kissed open mouthed, laughing and kissing until we ran out of breath. We fumbled with each other's clothes in the semi dark night and cared little if people saw us. One couple did, as they walked past, walking their Bully and the young man gave a whistle.
We meandered back to your flat in Glen Iris with its tree lined Avenues. The one next to yours had trees that entwined over each other, up high and we walked its length as if entering a sacred place, a secret arbour. Ours for that moment. A verdant hushed guard of honour, just for us.
The houses Grand. The driveways long and meticulously maintained, bluestone mostly and carriage lamps lighting up the front verandah with a warm yellow glow, speaking to me of money and comfort and memories of England.
We stumbled our way to your tiny second floor flat, with its minuscule balcony and kitchen. And we played music that we both loved. The Chieftains, Celtic Woman, Van Morrison, Kris Kristofferson and Charley Pride.
Old fashioned songs for you, that your Dad had loved and mine too. But then my Dad had loved all music. Perry Como, Tennessee Ernie Ford, Patty Paige, Ray Charles, Merle Haggard, Kris Kristofferson, Frank Sinatra.
Deco came home and told us to turn it down and we did and then went to bed in your tiny room and made all the noise in the world until he threw a shoe at the wall and roared at us to shut up.
We giggled like naughty school kids, misbehaving and kept on misbehaving but
