He lay in wait, he lay in wait he did, John Walson curly-headed.Dewy grass dampened his flannels, but he still remained.The sunset drained the colours, black and gold, from his all-glorious First Eleven scarf,but still he waited by the twilight edge.Only his eyes blazed blue with early love, blue blazing in the darkness of the lane,blue blazer, less incalculably blue, dark scarf, white flannels, supple body still,first love, first light, first life.A heartbeat noise, his heart or little feet, a snap of twigs, dry, dead and brown,the under-branches part, and bonzo scrambles by their secret way.First love so deep John Walson cannot speak, so deep he feels a tightening in his throat,so tender he could brush away the sand dried up in patches on her freckled legs,could hold her gently till the stars went down, and if she cut herself would staunch the wound,yes, even with his First Eleven scarf, and hold it there for hours.So happy and so deep he loves the world, could worship God and rocks and stones and trees,be nicer to his mother, kill himself, if that would make him pure enough for her,so at last he manages to say, you going to the Stokes' is hot tonight,well I'm not sure, are you? I think I may, it's pretty dud though, only lemonade.