top of page
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.


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.

A song of old age: Text
bottom of page