We young boys wait for our events,
and let our nostrils flare to breathe
the herbaceous tang of fresh mown grass.
Our hormones in an altogether different race
watch beautiful Rosemary lounging there,
her endless limbs lead to a neat seersucker hem
drawn right up to torment our cocks;
we are keen spectators for that flash of blue.
Along the lane lines powder white in distant parallel
our eyes are fixed on Susan’s perfect breasts,
soft cotton curves in tantalizing aertex rhythms
they rise and fall serenely as she hurdles by.
Then for a moment Leslie flies upon the Tuesday breeze
and plummets to the sand, her perfect bottom dusted brown,
her bottle knickers having disappeared somewhere,
we boys gasp as one and roll onto our stomachs.
© Graham Sherwood 4/2011
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