Race-course hollow

 We lay in the hollow
by the race-course copse
waiting for the sun to set,
waiting  the harvest moon
as other lovers take their places
in grassy circles like our own.
She was pretty, brunette, tall
lovely legs and thighs
brown green eyes tempting breasts.
talked of music.....
we both sang, often as duet
read the same white pages
books, Yorkshire churches
cycle rides and country-lanes;
but  were not here to talk.
Love was in the breeze
intoxicating the evening air
The night  warm,
murmurs in the dark
rose from other hollows,
late walkers with their dogs
sneaked away not to spoil our fun,
recalling youthful memories,
on their way to home.
We watched them climb the style
alone we used the moon
kissed, breathed scents of skin in love,
forgotten now the country-lanes
Cycle rides and Yorkshire churches
we knew the way by heart,
every turning now explored
been this way before  . . . . .
what was round the corner.
So lost ourselves for one brief hour . . .
all the things that lovers do.
A long reluctant walk to home
glowing in the dark . . . . .
separate beds and houses.
parents sitting by the fire
sneak up the stairs.
shyly say good-night..
smiles beside the fire.