It isn’t a plot. It’s what cultured humans don’t admit:
bright scarlet blood in lips attracts
                               wry bitter-wrinkly grey
drunks eyeing us imploringly
do not: we feign busy

put off by guilt. Boys girls everybody opts
without a moment’s pause for sunshine
                  caught radiantly in wire billows netting
the all-girls-school playing fields away
        from traffic, from pedestrians. 
                          Sun switches on
grassy greenness, starts sugars brewing
 and embryonic pollens, if not stopped 
      by being mown flat into sexless carpeting.

Today girls clung to lozenges of wire, as high
as they’d managed to climb
               and shouted hellos at lads passing

admit it happens everywhere
                                just like this. Spinster graduate
teachers with hard-luck expressions
                can bugger off this minute. We’re not
being horrid, but they’d catch us
                       red-handed laughing red with shame
  and ruin our fun!