Second Chance Sunday

we made our tryst
below the peeling bandstand,
amongst demanding ducks;
the man in the van
swirled raspberry sauce
as tiny black hands
tipped pound coins above the sill.

what goes around comes around
apart from number twenty-seven
grounded on the island
and the fallen skateboarder
who hadn't brought his kneepads;
I didn't like the way you laughed at them
but it was a start, at least.

"I'm sorry," I said;
an apology for an apology,
except that it was my only ploy;
the Labrador gripping the stick
shook himself dry at our expense
and you laughed again;
this time, the way I remembered.
"All right," you said
and we shared an ice-cream
even though it was still early March.