The weatherwoman on the BBC
warned of humidity. It was August,
my exam results were poor, and the sweat
was in our eyes and in our intimates.

So I tried walking the woods and met
class beauty Gwenda, with a limping dog.
Hello, I’m here, I’m good with dogs,
I might have said, I did say more or less,
lusting to ingratiate. And the dog himself,
I wished him well. Thorn in the paw.
The good-with-dogs boy, whippet-keen
(just failed exams for veterinarian training),
poised now to pluck the thorn. One good tweak
and it came away, just as his teeth
sank in my wrist. No, no, I said, don’t worry,
just a graze. Poor Shep just didn’t understand.
No probs. I’ll see you. I’ll be fine.

My parents started worrying at one a.m.
We’d tried iodine and paracetamol.
So next step, A & E. An overnight stay
and the injections. Just need to rest now,
I was told. Then it was visiting time
and there was Gwenda. So sorry, sorry,
sorry. Contrite and kind. No, no, I’m fine,
I said. Shep’s well, I hope. (I asked myself,
Will she now fall in love with me, utterly,
from this day forth?) For I was bathed
in dog-days-sweaty sentiment. 
Back in school (I was back there to re-sit)
I sought her out. She was still radiating 
sympathy. It formed a bond of course,
we become good friends. In an early-autumn,
light-breeze-blowing sort of way.