When Our Days Are Minutes... Poem by David Lewis Paget

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.

22 December 1991