I Think His Name Was Paul

Sixteen! We’d meet at Bondi Beach, and go
down near the wall. We’d find a sheltered place
to spread our towels so they’d touch, then race
to where the smallest waves could foam and flow
across our feet. We’d feel that creamy lace
spread over flesh that touched, to send a glow
of new awareness northwards. Face to face
we’d stand, and those around us gave us space.
We were so much in love it had to show.

Just learners then, we thought that love was all,
and sprawled on towels, kissed to make it last;
believed it would. Then summer, I recall,
grew cool and so did we. Our love had passed
by June the first … I think his name was Paul.