First Touch

Image courtesy of Walcoo.net

I’m from the first touch
of the first girl’s hair 
and the haze of cherry lipgloss 
in the copse above the school;

I’m from young leaves running
with rainwater 
and the taste of green 
after a storm;

I’m from Sunday afternoons 
in the harvest fields,
straw-scratched and happy
in the choking air
and later, the four of us discovering 
how it felt to grow;

I’m from lipstick on tissue, 
a dry hand holding mine,
ice cream and sea walks,
the breathless first Silk Cut
at the edge of the field.

I am these moments
drawn from their hiding places,
laid out in lines on the page.

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