That Christmas

That was the year I drove down from the city

past the scented gardens and the ornate brick fence

the open stocked fields and the sun shimmers

and you were there, with cuffed trousers and an open shirt:

you said how hot it was and then you snapped open the case:

Let’s have a beer, you said, and you levered out a flagon;

you poured barely-cool draught into little tin cups and the

condensation ran down the sides and over our fingers.

We waited for the guests and before we heard the Holden draw up

we were one flagon down and the sun had let the smell of peaches

escape and, well, it was pretty near perfect

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