She liked to play with boys.
She knew where she was with their roughness -
horses dogs boys smelling of bracken and new bread.
Tony Wooster burned her initials in a leaf with his magnifying glass
catching and holding the sun -
the sun blinded her, splintered him in dazzlement.
His house seemed to be without adults -
nobody stopped them sliding
down the stairs on bolsters or chewing hunks of bread - her teeth
left prints in the marge, left prints on his cheek.
They lowered their heads, cracked
their skulls together like stags and now
she wonders if he married someone sensible.