On the Run Anne Reynolds
That summer we took the boat out and harvested sea urchins from the baskets. The salt breezes caked our hair and clothes as we gutted, bleached and rinsed them and left them to dry in the Cornish sun. Later we watched the colours magically appear with each brush stroke of varnish ready for sale as tourist lamp stands. I knew from the moment you crossed the room to take my hand in yours, that this was for forever. You were hazelnut fudge in plain chocolate deliciously melting in my arms. Our kisses new and addictive. Touch and tenderness as deep as midnight blue. You packed away your summer clothes and left them in Penzance and I tiptoed out in the early hours from a stuffy Chiltern town On the run… Lying together in colourwash, looking for rainbows in the sash window of the shared house in Earl’s Court. Your pen and ink drawings more real than our hazy dreams which slipped into the psychedelic slipstream of London. Maybe I’ll find you again under that bush the one we slept under that first night just round the corner from The Troubadour. Or perhaps we’ll march again in protest 32
