The Stream by William Marsland.

It was the wet spring of 67
from behind that old willow tree.
Trembling at the thought
of you noticing me through
its weeping tentacles.
Trembling
because I hoped you would.

I saw you standing at the water’s edge
a seductive breeze
pushed against the floral print of your dress
Your outline excited me so much.
I hugged you
through the light-dappled leaves

You twirled, and swirled
to and fro along the bank.
Unaware that I, though unmoving
also danced a step or two and then
the dancing stopped.
With arms outstretched
as though to catch the distant sun.
you stepped into the silvered cool
till it lapped against the pertness of your breasts

My eyes and thoughts transfixed.
I hugged that tree so tight
no subtle thought of mine
had room to breath
as closer to the bank you came
then splash! And splash! Again.
You sat within the willows reach
and splashing, called my name.


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