I had a motorway of hair,
long, black, stood up to stresses well.
You trafficked it, your fingers heavy, light.
I closed it once or twice against the terrors
you get with hair. One day, a lake of sun
drowned the usual distance between us.
Planes dipped their beaks in it.
People doffed clothes from upper bodies
in surprised respect, whistled through fingers,
eased back muscle. Terrace ends raised
exhausted faces to its shower. Games
splashed in its shallows. It sprang like balls from the rough
along the road. At noon, on TV,
it was historicised. The hottest day
since records began.
When, at four,
my cloud of hair plugged the sun,
we dried out dull.
Ah, motorways. We protest
because they seem to lace
our towns with ladders.
But I remember you climbing
towards where I shook
the last drops of sun from the top rung,
hand over hand, binding
your feet in ripples of starless rope.
How together we watched
the uncontrollable underneath of my hair.