Sweet memory of a purple first kiss

From the window of his care

home room

He peers at the suffused

purple haze

Draping the lilacs, bowed

with bloom. Conjuring dreamy images of

bygone days. Bilberrying on Birkrigg Scar, Purple lips and purple fingers, Purple berries in a jam jar, The memory from

childhood lingers.

Short pants, sandals and a

bottle of pop. Dandelion and burdock,

nectar sweet,

Three old pennies from the

corner shop,

At the end of a longdemolished street.

Sally Jane was in command

that day,

A freckled ten-year-old

elected

Because she knew

the hideaway,

Where bilberries

glistened undetected. He remembers offering her

his drink,

Her shy smile and the sense

of bliss,

When she touched his face,

and with a wink, Pursed purple lips into a kiss. Enviously watched by Bill

and Harry,

School chums, birds of

a feather, Searching for their

elusive quarry, Knee-deep in the

purple heather.

Pals throughout the

next decade, Comrades in khaki,

they welcomed the chance To follow the band in the

big parade

And board the troopship

bound for France.

No band was there late

in May,

To play rousing,

marching tunes. When in a huddled heap

they lay, Sheltering in scrub

and dunes. Exhausted by their rush

to reach

The abattoir on

Dunkirk beach.

Bill and Harry, who went

to war,

Never to return to

Birkrigg Scar.

To collect bilberries in a jar. He sees them from his care

home room, Phantoms wreathed in the

scented bloom

Of lilacs in their

summer dress,

That summon through

the windowpane

The memory of a

sweet caress,

And the purpled kiss of

Sally Jane.

Alan Whittaker, Cleobury Mortimer, Shropshire.