That Kiss 1962 Poem by Terry Collett

The school field was dry
and the summer sun
shone down
at midday recess.

You sat with John
on the grass;
he showed you
his book of birds
he'd brought to school
so he could show you
the birds he had seen
in his garden at home.

You knew most
of the birds he showed you,
but some you had never seen.

I saw this one the other day,
he said,
pointing to a picture
of a Yellow Hammer.

You saw one in real life?
you said, gazing at him,
taking in his quiff of brown hair
and hazel eyes.

Yes saw it in the orchard
while I was laying on the grass,
he said.

You wished
he'd put the book away
and talk to you
about how he felt
about you
or maybe hold your hand,
but he talked on about the birds.

You looked beyond him
at boys playing football
over the way
and various groups
sitting on the grass talking
or laughing.

You wanted deep down
for him to kiss you again,
as he had some months back
when he surprised you
by just kissing you
just like that
and it had unsettled
your world
and now you wanted
that feeling again,
but he talked on.

You put out a hand
and held his,
the hand not holding the book,
and took it and held it
against your cheek.

He stopped talking
and gazed at you.

You released his hand
and he looked at your hand.

He closed the book of birds:
didn't think you'd want me
to do that,
he said,
thought it unsettled you.

It did,
but not anymore,
you said.

He looked about him,
then at you,
and leaned in close
and kissed your lips,
so soft, it felt as if he
were merely brushing
the air between you.

He leaned away
and he never kissed you
again that day.