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Alicia Stubbersfield

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Too Late

Pass the playground where mothers
remember feeling dizzy on swings,
their sons speeding down the slide;
stop for a moment at the lake,
see your reflection haze over
as the swan paddles her black feet.

Oxfam shoes let in the damp,
take a swig of vodka,
the path winds over a little bridge,
not quite round the ancient mulberry tree.
You sat on that bench as he took your picture,
twenty years ago when you pouted like Dietrich.

Here are rhododendron bushes,
flowers almost out, purple and pink
pressing against darkness,
hiding the brick walls of the gents’ toilet.
A man is waiting, you don’t know who he is
but it doesn’t matter as you walk towards him.

The local papers will name only you,
will not mention his tongue in your mouth,
sweat cooling on hot skin so you feel
young again like the photographs you saved.
They will not explain fear .or excitement, or the way
a heart beats, whether you want it to or not.

 

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