Walkabout

(circa 1965)

Winter's wind,
A chill,
A look, a thrill.
Warmth.
A secret glance,
Passing in the hall.
A quickness of the breath.
An extra beating of the heart.
Hands touching,
Brushing by
Unseen,
But not unnoticed.

A word or two.
A walk.
And weeks and weeks go by.

A friendly talk,
Between the sips of coffee.
A breath of spring.
A friendly breeze,
And buds are out.
A longer walk
Within the woods,
Between the brush,
Beneath the trees,
And none to see.

A field.
And early summer's sun,
Amber yellow,
Warm and waiting,
Young, inviting.

A brushing of the grass
Against the hips.
And then, a surge,
A sudden seizure
Of delight.

A run.
A rapid race,
Crickets hitting face,
And brittle grasses,
Crackling protestation,
Snapping at the knees.

A grasp. A tug.
And thud, a fall,
A squeeze.

The grasses flatten down.
A small enclosure.
Pressing, panting, pulling, pushing,
Sweating,
Down against the ground.
A wispy sound
Of scuffing skin.

A cry.
A bird disturbed takes wing.
A sigh.
Pain, relief, regret, delight,
Respiring there together.

The sun is sinking down.
The earth is turning round.

A willow weeps for someone
In the night.

- Sitaram