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Clinic
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The Radio Story
It was only after he made her acquaintance,
That it occured to him, maybe, this was beyond the bounds of possibility.
Henry saw her each morning,
A superior mirage from the future.
His hastily scribbled down phone number, was received with a wry smile, no rebuff.
They met at Warwick Street, dusk.
With the cars still on their homeward drive,
And his heart pounding ashamedly.
She arrived averting her eyes, yet she expectantly walked over to join him.
Terrine of Yorkshire gammon, sweet potato mash, duck eggs and a smile.
Her gaze met his, their hands lightly brushing, as he reached for the cheque.
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Do you remember when life was ecstacy?
The hotel room was bleak, but he hardly noticed as she took control.
Her fingers deftly undoing the buttons, on his borrowed shirt.
No noise except the buzz of the overhead light, and their breathing.
Eyes closed, dark hair thrown back in wild abandon,
She whispered The National Anthem, as he sank into her.
She tasted of Remy Martin and Ancient Rome.
Hours of frantic lubricious coupling, left them physically spent,
Falling into a deep profound comatosed sleep.
Only waking days later,
When the letter was delivered.
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