birds dancing – and in the morning,

the hens come to the caravan’s steps, feathery feet,

on the hunt for bacon, maybe egg.

Then – guess what? BIG surprise! The period arrives!

I’m eleven. You’re eleven! Claire Innes says.

Some don’t get them till they’re fourteen. Lucky you.

Don’t tell your brother. Brothers are not supposed to ken.

 

And then, to the chemist in Aviemore, in the Morris Minor,

to get the towels mum says are like nappies.

I’m disappointed. They’re nothing like nappies!

I’m all emotional. You’ll feel all emotional;

It’s natural. In the caravan, in the middle of the night,

Claire turned to me, the wee curtains shut tight,

the rain pitter-pattering the roof. Wheesht! Wheesht!

I went dead quiet. Not a word from me, not a word.

You’ve a forest there, Claire said, softly (she had no pubic hair!)

Then she pushed her tongue to the roof of my mouth –

and we kissed, we kissed, we kissed. We really did.