First Love

I was sixteen
My cousin three and twenty,
Training at the Slade,
That summer making a bird–bath
For my uncle's garden.

Dark eyed, dark haired, a little stumpy,
In yellow shirt and pearl–grey Oxford bags,
I thought him beautiful.
All that afternoon I stood
Beside him under the willow tree,
Watching him at work,
Speechless with love.

It was to be a woman
But still lacked a face.
‘Your face would do’ he said
‘Modern — triangular — with pointed chin and cheeks.
I might do a sketch.’
That day there was no sketch.

Feigning dental trouble, I contrived another visit,
Forgetting dentistry plays havoc with the face.
My cousin offered sympathy and aspirins
And took me for a walk along the Roman Road
— Chalk white, shadowed by beeches.
I thought them beautiful. He scoffed.
A row of beeches, to an artist's eye
Were simply vegetables, he said.
No better than a field of cabbage.

I lingered, in hope, long after tea.
At last, dipping into a pot of Indian ink,
He drew my likeness, swiftly, with one finger.
Modern, no doubt, — triangular for sure,
— Hardly a thing of beauty!

I never saw my cousin again,
But for many a year he was my template
For a man to love.