Night of the Predator

Gamely, she smiled,
lucid as scotch mist.
On a day when the sun shone plentiful,
and vermouth flowed,
as free as milk at a post-natal class -
heady days indeed.
We sat quietly on the vacant beach –
for a while,
then moved on to where the ultra-violets
illuminated ladies undergarments,
and one could marvel
at the resilience of the human eardrum
within a sardine tin of exuberant youth.
Oh, but to be young again.
Early hours,
accompanied by tired limbs,
and a smile that had reached a state of permanency -
mind and body in limbo.
Didn’t I once own a Ford Anglia?
A reference that readily sprang to mind
in comparing its emissions with the room,
which now filled my respiratory tract
with inhalations of Lambert & Butler.
She kissed me full on the lips,
I thought of the thrill of the hunt,
and my loins reminded me of the ultimate goal.
I smiled into her lively eyes,
drew back my final arrow and mimed,
‘Do you have any Gold Blend at home?’