Her wignut wellies never fit the mould,
water always seeped into her pristine
white socks from the sides where
seams had split with age and fray.
Stomach lurched when she saw him stand,
sun framing his skinny jeaned, peachy James Dean
packet of perfection.
He would never wink at her.
Plain Jane, dumpy Deborah, geeky Gertrude.
When she hit her thirties
returning to the spot older, wizened,
deeper in some ways behind bespectacled eyes,
carrying the memory of five minutes ago,
when he stood before her,
pot bellied, bald
armed with Tennants Super Extra,
and sixty Mayfair-