Memory.

Shortly after I had graduated from high school, on a holiday down in the bush with my family, my father and I heard a couple of lions roaring in the middle of the night, and decided to go out looking for them.

The open Land Rover we were using at the time was a temperamental old wreck, shuddering and coughing reluctantly into action when you turned the key, and taking off with all the speed and grace of an oil-tanker. But we coaxed it into life and headed on out to the spot where we imagined the lions to be. And found them.

Land Rovers are big. So are lions.

Land Rovers are big. So are lions.

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The persistence of touch.

Before I started this blog, I hadn’t really written anything but e-mails for nearly twenty years, so I need all the practice I can get. I swore never to write any poetry for this blog. Here it is:

 

The memory of touch.

 

It’s been hours since we were together

And still

The warmth of your skin warms mine.

 

The soft, slow waves of your breath

Are gone from me now

And still

They stir the fine hairs on my neck and shoulder,

A touch without touching.

 

The weight of you

Still

The smell of you

Still

 

Jesus lady!

It was a bank queue,

Not a conga line!

 

You need to learn about personal space

Before you fall pregnant

On the five o’clock bus.

 

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