Both sat quietly,
Both sat quietly,
They were on the hillside
Overlooking the wood
Close to where they used to play as kids.
It was a grown-up thing to do
A tartan rug
With a picnic in a basket
Cheese and pickle sandwiches
French fancies
Strawberries and lemonade
Many was the time they rolled in the grass
Rolly-poly style
Down that hill
Perhaps he wanted to again
But he didn’t speak
The moment was electric
It was so quiet he could hear
Last night’s supper travelling
Right through his system
So could she
Every sound was a whisper
Barely any noise at all
Even the birds presented a permission slip
To call upon them
Afraid to burst the silence
Rupturing the fragile fabric of the day.
Should they have shouted, thrown everything out
Into the world
Claimed it as their own?
Breaking the rules of engagement
For a moment of ecstasy
Or remain in whispered intimacy
Afraid to be overheard
Saying things they had only ever thought
About each other
Who would know?
It was a good three miles across fields
Under the train line through a drainage tunnel
A hop and a skip over the beck
With the wobbly rock in the middle
It had claimed him more than once
Paddled by his dad
For getting wet
Sunday best ruined for Easter
Spending the rest of the day in his room
Without privileges
But those days were bygones
This was a different thing
A grown-up first-time picnic thing
Not at all the same as a bunch of kids
Taking a brown paper bag filled with jam sandwiches
And a bottle of tap water down to the dell
To play all day, building a dam in the beck
Bouncing bombs
Floating balsawood boats through the tunnel
Beneath the road
Crawling inside to free them
Escaping from Colditz
Catching Sticklebacks
Taking them home in a jam jar
That never got past the front door
All the kids were told to put them back
Where they found them
Before the little tiddlers died
It was easier to think about childhood
Than to do the right thing as a grown-up
But when they sat in silence
He could hear everything she meant to say
And some things she didn’t.