Under an apple tree

Out in the garden we sit decorously on a bench. He holds a glass of chilled white wine by the stem and we admire the peonies. The smell of the earth from the rain makes me stand up, restless, and suggest we walk further on.

We stop under the apple trees where the last of the blossom is disappearing into the grass. Green walls of hedges surround us, the space between full to the brim of sunlight.

I lift the empty glass from his fingers and put it down on an old stump. I take his hands in mine and he smiles as I guide him backwards half a step to the tree-trunk. I lean against him and hold his head as I kiss him; as the passion rises I clasp the tree behind, pinning him against it and bringing a shower of raindrops down on us.

We laugh and in the surge of energy he gains control of my hands, his left anchoring them behind me. He squeezes my bottom, his fingers exploring the cleft across the top of my thigh. I throw back my head and he kisses my throat.

Unseen, three gardens away, a mower starts.