Danielle

Footprints in the sand
Erased by the rising tide
So that nothing remains to

Mark the track of young lovers
Shyly walking hand-in-hand,
Bewitched by discovery.

But we, we are not shy youths,
Green in our loving, but old
Loves, with appraising, knowing

Gazes and memories. Of
That black silk dress I left there
Puddled by the foot of my

Bed as I impatiently
Bared you. The twin hillocks of
Bra cups, streamers of stockings,

Female impedimenta
Peeled away and shed in haste.
Your hungry lips, the tawny

Taut, youthful firmness of you,
Our manic urgency that
First time, the groaning release

At the world's ending when we
Basked in the sweaty after
And became lovers, not in

The act itself, but during
The intermission, in that
Warm welded embrace,

In foolish murmurs and the
Companionable cocoon
Of that sacred space between

Coitus and the return to
Normal time. Memories. Of
Walking on the beach, barefoot

And of picnic lunches in
Pine woods with sandwiches of
Cheese and country ham and the

Rough red wine from that place near
Your village, acid and thin like
The Norman soil that made you,

And made you leave rather than
Sacrifice yourself to the
Stony small farm that was your

Patrimony, there amid the
Hedgerows and apple orchards
And a dying country life.

We give them space, those two young
Lovers walking ahead. They
Are owed their magic, their time.

We also walk hand-in-hand
Along that wide silver strand
Weighted, buoyed, by memory.