My Santiago

The older woman

There we were, Me at 16, My first older woman, In my arms. Head nestled into mine, Giving herself to me Unconditionally; And me, taller by a head, But the novice in so many ways.

We clutched and swayed as one in that most Catholic of church halls,

Cloaked from the gossip of disapproving parents, Voracious friends - who wouldn’t understand - And the predictable pragmatism of a world ever waiting to reclaim us, reset us, reinstate us, and jolt us back to age difference and the cynical jaded present.

But, we had our time, Our space, our moment, our moments, Patched together, Song by – country music - song, Ever tender dance by tender dance,

In that one night, In that church hall,

In that sultry Colombo Sweat-infused romance; No one but us, No right, no wrong, No conversations, No past, And - certainly - no future. But never wanting one; Full well knowing that Futures destroy the magic of the present; The transient and permanent time etched in memory and nursed in dark corners, carefully unwrapped

in whimsical moments of life, When cares and adulthood threaten to pulverise the irresponsible right out of you, Leaving you stable, solid,