Being There

And to be honest, I can’t even remember
her name. She was Spanish, that’s for sure.
From the islands, or was it Seville? 
 
So anyway, I met her at a party, or did I?
No actually, a friend set us up. I recall
it went on for a while. The summer of 1984.
 
She was an au pair, maybe a student.
Lived in Streatham, maybe Kennington.
She liked to walk hand in hand by the river.
 
A first kiss in Piccadilly, a film in Leicester Square. 
But it could have been in St Martins Lane.
It was Peter Sellers in ‘Being There’.

We slept in a bed on the Charing Cross Road.
A Peabody flat. A private curtained quietness. 
I left her for a florist from Basildon.
 
Looking back, I don’t know why I ran away. 
Perhaps it was beauty, maybe a fear of touch.
Marita was her name. The loveliness of the sun.