First Touch (Revised)

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

I’m from young leaves jewelled
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
what it meant to grow;

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

I’m loose fragments
drawn from waiting places,
laid out in lines on a page.

The first draft is here