Cambridge Old Boys
rugby season in Cambridge, last night’s training all vigorous and unforgiving under those floodlights, oranges sliced and quartered for halftime, the sharp acid juice stinging like fire on cracked lips. then into the scrum for that final mad push, shoulders crashing into shoulders, stubble scraping stubble, and the full-time whistle blowing clean across the field.
St Augustine’s
marked cards and letters filled the top drawer of the old writing desk — two long years of them, correspondence and poems and notes of love and want, all folded away in the quiet dark. he remembered the gate to her front door, the narrow path through the garden where lavender and rosemary and basil