Leslie Tate Author PoetLeslie Tate

Aphrodite's Children extract

‘More was less: he could still keep them guessing'

 

As Matthew followed he noticed, set back in a corner, a small drift of daffodils with their heads bent forward, knotted by the wall. Around them river water had flowed across the path, filling round the stems to a milk-grey pool. They looked like castaways waiting to be rescued. Touching Sally’s arm he nodded. “I’ll get those,” he said and moved himself forward before she could reply. In them he’d found an aim. A kind of rationale. There was about him now an irony of purpose.

 

The pool was uneven and deeper than expected. As he pushed towards the centre an invisible obstruction caught against his toe. He stumbled, pulled himself back then continued, upright and careful. On reaching the daffodils he steadied, then, stooping, tugged them back and forth as if pulling hair. “I wandered lonely,” he called out, tightening his grip and pulling harder. The plants strained and coloured beneath his fingers. “When all at once,” he declaimed head down, baring his teeth. He continued reciting, dragging the plants in all directions like a dog on a lead. When he arrived at the words “When on my couch I lie,” a stem tore away and he stood back, swearing. Holding up his catch he checked for damage. Three lime yellow heads showed above a mess of green. It seemed he’d had enough. As he waded shoreward he held his trophy aloft, calling the last stanza like a battle cry.

Arriving at Sally he held the flowers forward. Straight-lipped, dutiful, he stood there waiting like a runner with a torch. As he stood his jeans ran water.

 

She nodded her approval.

Ironic, he bowed and offered: “Then my heart with pleasure fills.”

 

Sally accepted: “And dances with the daffodils.”