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Compatible? I'd hoped it was foreseeable.
Then came that searing day of sun in June
when we both thought it could be quite agreeable
to take a picnic, spend the afternoon

in some secluded and romantic spot
which should not prove too difficult to find
for lovely Yorkshire can provide a lot
of scope to leave one’s problems far behind.

We soon forsook the A roads and the crowds
and lay among the daisies in the dales
where lazily I watched the drifting clouds
and she with concentration filed her nails.

We ate the tuna sandwiches she favours,
drank chardonnay, although I longed for beer,
crunched hand-made crisps in mock-exotic flavours
that she adores, but I find far too dear.

I made a tentative attempt to kiss her
which she repulsed, and said she’d take a walk
as she was bored. She hoped I wouldn’t miss her.
“When I get back”, she said, “we’ll have to talk.”

I must admit I found the peace delightful,
just cooing birds, a whispering beck and me
compared with which all humankind seemed frightful
and she was not as lovely as a tree.

Then, wakened from a blissful doze, I heard her
complaining moans before she came in sight.
“What heat! A day like this is bloody murder!”
And, do you know, this time she got it right.