After prayers
we duck from
the puddles of girls
revising in the sun
and pay our furtive visit
to the old pavilion.

The moon refuses
to go to bed today,
floating like a bride
who’s brought the whole sky
to her wedding for luck.
I giggle, bare legs tickled by

the grass – she sings
Frankly Mr Shankly like a lullaby
as we skirt the hockey field.
I push her through the broken window
and smile with the daisies
until the chain flushes.

I pull her out. We wait,
read the instructions
till we are sure it’s positive.
She says a few words slowly
about who can not be told.
The grass heads nod.

We agree which girls
are most likely to be discreet
and know the right phone numbers.
My face as flat as
a Matron of Honour’s,
I stroke her rigid knee.