'Dancing'

Half way up the parkland hill a young couple dance in a slow rolling manner. The girl, her long limpid dress as red as sealing-wax, moves across the thick green hillside like a slow flame which is at times revealed as a continuous flicker and at other times concealed by her beau whom she rotates. She extends her right arm out straight and lets her wrist dangle limply across the man's shoulder. She holds her head straight; her lips are shut. Like a sphinx she gazes straight at him, but seems to see right through. The man dances with his head bent a little to one side, apprehensive, his yellow face struggling to learn.

The clues are all around. At least I think they are. Half way up the parkland hill one day I'll come across a man and a woman standing on the grass, distorted into an un-dancelike clinch. He wears a dark suit and she a long white shift which stretches from neck to foot. I notice the wet redness of the man's lips. He is arching forward, both arms round her waist trying to press his loins against her lap. Desperation lies buried in his eyes. For she leans far far back and holds her head away from his earnest mouth. And, worse, she holds his arms trapped by his sides in her vice grip. Her body feels nothing (that's the one thing he's always feared) for her grip signals other, dry, needs.