A song of old age

There is much we don’t say.

Skin has its memories;

here where the dark-brown

shades into black,

over the knobs of bone.

                                                    Then –

It came like an animal,

soft, with hidden claws,

unexpected, perverse.

It’s in the beat of blood,

the ripple of flesh under my hand.

                                                    Desire.

​

We hesitate on the rim

before we take that leap,

Letting the spin of lust

Tumble us down,

down to that deep centre.

Your stroke arm clutches me.

I dip my head into your neck,

a thirsty bird.

In the morning,

there is much we don’t say.

Once or twice,

we look at each other

and smile.