Age

Gnarled fingers touching, soothing,
bringing back to life the
pleasantness of all that is spring,
youth and content.
Share with me the secret
of life on these windy cliffs
a river carved through a mountain
immemorial times ago.

Let me listen to the rhythm
of your heartbeat,
a genteel murmur – or
is it the water I hear
rushing below us
as we stand together
basking in a spring sunset?

Tell me the stories
that carved each line of you,
etched each curve.
Were they knights
that first fell in love
with your homely scents
or were they warriors
checking their steeds
at the memory
of a stolen first kiss?

Or were they Viking sailors
with blue eyes
and insignificant boats
bobbing on the river
before returning to
the conquering majesty
of their ship, carrying
news of you,
you pink-and-white-robed minstrel?

I stand here and watch
as you sparkle
in the dewy evening,
ensconced in birdsong
and whinnying horses
and the smell of rich soil
awakening around you.