When Our Days Are Minutes...

At life’s butt end, I offer this, my sweet,

A long, slow burn to, at last, defeat;

A dreamtime reverie of old, gone ways

And sleepy wakings at the nub of days.

 

A light touch, drowsy, on your fading skin

To feed slow warmth at your cold come-in,

A languid stroking at your liquid stirrings

Before sleep deepens and reclaims two virgins.

 

More long silences than words between us

(Thoughts drip silver where a word breeds fever),

Painful pauses at a mind’s long ache

When a thought brings anger, or a word’s too late.

 

All this, woman, can I see before us,

Life’s long panic that will cut and draw us,

But still I’ll hold you at the long-loved hand

When our days are minutes, and our minutes sand.

 

David Lewis Paget