As pretty little Ivy passes Henry in the lane on her morning way to work each day, she never once imagines that he, the lanky farmlad, is to become her true love before the Summer is out. A nod, a half-smile of recognition in the early Spring sunshine is all that passes between them ..Henry too shy, long-limbed in faded corduroy and canvas gaiters, leaning on his shovel, shifting hurdles or driving Pearce's cows to the dairy, can barely hold her gaze a second before his eyes fall in rapt observation of his own clumsy boots, whilst Ivy, blushing and awkward, smiles at the daisies at her feet rather then upturn her pink face to his .. A rural love affair seeding , too slow and cautious, unwatered by expectation, untended, unwitting, a runt of a love in truth.
Nothing goes unobserved by the country gods though and before long, Hermes, weary of the stumbling Henry, gormless in the cowshed through lack of love, takes matters in hand. Eros is summoned and told to fix the pair.
Nights are warm this June when Eros comes a-calling. Cottages hold the heat of the day and moths and bats spiral lamplit outside the open bedroom windows of the village. Sleeping deep in down and patched linen in their separate virgin beds, our hapless subjects can never have dreamt of the wingéd lad who hovers with golden darts over their bedsteads. Pierced with new dreams of love this night, they wake at dawn and trembling shy in the knowledge of where their hearts have led them, dress themselves in quiet awe and a longing for more.
And so it is then this morning that their meeting in the lane bears a strange new thrill, their hearts wear a different colour, their eyes meet and lock and Henry, bold as never before, reaches, takes Ivy's hand in his and steals a kiss. The Wingéd Boys darts have planted deep in hungry soil and flourish and a lifetime of country loving begins.
"Ivy, ivy, I thee pluck,
In my bosom, I thee tuck,
The next young man that speaks to me,
Must surely my true lover be..."