By Rommy Collingwood
There is something about the way the kid reaches for his mate that has me stopped, like a passerine bird, all parched, puffing like a fish. Is he a marauder? There are no other pirate ships in sight, merely some pink toes. I have no whit of understanding. Yet.
The kid lifts up his mate’s shirt: is he searching for a tall ship? No. He nestles at the nipple. His mate is all over him, then in his arms, peart, breathing hard. The kid is wrapped round his mate’s neck like a swan. He dips his beak and exhales very slowly.
I have nary a clue……….