Waking up on my twenty-fourth birthday

I have no idea why
I suddenly remembered
the first time a boy
held my hand.

It was that trip to Sweden,
on a coach
crowded with instruments
and noisy with teenaged
boys and girls,
like you and me.

I was sitting beside you
(or maybe on your lap)
and we were talking.

Out of the blue,
my left hand was meeting yours,
palm to palm;
we were measuring the
size of our hands
against each other’s -
it was wondrous how
mine looked so small
on yours!

Then,
without another word,
our fingers simultaneously
curled to clasp
each other’s hand,
and our conversation
ceased;

we were contented to
sit back and enjoy
the silence that had cocooned
the two of us -
happy to let
our touch do the talking.



19^th March, 3^rd April 2005