Acting My Age
I am the crone who craves
Naked skin against mine
Who yearns giving in to gravity
The safe, strong cradle
Of a lover’s hold
I am the soul who dreams of freedom
Who burns through barriers
Cool wind on my cheek
As silence enfolds me
And yet
I am the woman who fears
Handing in her keys
When my few short moments
Spent in the belly of bliss
Are done
And will I still dream, when I’ve left this room?
And will I still smell the sweet scent of sex?
Or will I miss the pull of gravity
And naked skin against mine
A Momentary Crossing
I remember us downing cider and ploughman’s lunch after tramping across Sussex fields, singing Those Were the Days, My Friend.
I remember day turning to night as we kicked stones under stars.
I remember wearing that mini dress, pulling its hem down over thick, amber-coloured tights as we listened to the sounds of silence.
I remember us getting high in St Ives, holding each other close in two thin sleeping bags zipped together.
I remember carrying the warm blanket of your amity with me long after we morphed into friends.
I remember our paths crossing the tracks of time, then running parallel and casting off in an elegant country dance.
I remember presents of books and vinyl, your voice inked into them, shortening miles and years.
I remember our boys born five weeks apart - yours the colour of milk chocolate, mine vanilla ice cream, playing together as brothers.
I remember you telling me you’d had a funny chest all winter, and no it wasn’t asthma but you’d had an x-ray.
I remember holding breath and tears, my heart running like a wayward child, the day you rang to report the diagnosis.
I remember you walking uncertainly round Manchester’s Christmas lights, me clinging to our too-brief moment, wishing I could stow it somewhere safe as it slipped like sand through my hands.
I remember wanting to lead you away from the MacMillan unit so we could go on one last mad adventure. Instead, I said I’d look out for your kids, my voice snagging like torn nails on nylon.
I remember hugging you, the familiar soft contours of our bodies filling each other's hollows, conversing in a language all their own.
I remember peeling my body away from yours, leaving my imprint in your spaces, and yours in mine.
I remember flying home to a halting message about things that needed to be said, but at the hospice the thought had butterflied away from your morphined brain.
I remember splinters in my body left by the shrapnel spray of losing you, and the needle stuck on my record-player, singing Mary Hopkin’s song.