Anna Stevens

At the river

We biked in tandem, you and I, our picnic in panniers on the back. And at the river bank we set out our spread. I waded in the river, dreaming at the quivering water and you said, ‘Come on, Kate.’ So we lay on the rug and ate chicken sandwiches and madeira cake. The sun filtered through the willow leaves. You lay back, picking at your teeth. The toothpick broke. The breeze on damp trousers made me cold. We packed for home. As we got back on the bike, like a camel kneeling, it began to fold.





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