First Love: Roger

Wednesday is the last poetry class. One more homework, a poem about our first loves.
As usual mine is still in progress. Constructive criticism welcome.

Even before school,
before the Beatles,
there was Roger.
An impression of sandy hair,
a smudge of freckles.

I remember his tricycle better;
white, with a basket at the front
with holes like a colander
where we placed the earthworms
we collected.
Maybe they escaped through the holes.
Perhaps we fed them to the robin.
The collecting was the important thing.
Poor worms.

Pebbles, feathers,
other treasures
were stored, by some forgotten agreement,
in the small tan bag
above the stabilisers
of my solid tyred,
red, Hercules.

Squatting side by side
on the pavement
watching ants;
sitting on a wall
eating buttery hot cross buns
on Good Friday;
pedalling races
to the limits of our
freedom –
the road sign
where a huge splinter
entered my palm and
seemed to stay
for weeks
until the skin cracked
and it was freed;
digging holes
in his garden.
We were always together,
always outside,
and it never rained.

He moved away before
we learned to write.