On the subject of ageing,

I fear it’s not for me,

I just like wallowing in memories far too much

to have them snatched or slowly corroded, decayed

or fading into the golden sun-sleight of

half forgotten anecdotes and blistered self-denial

to not remember you, your brushed long hair, and trembling

smooth skin as you leant in for a second kiss,

to ever allow old-age the promise

of victory in wondering

who the women is when I look at a

sepia toned photograph, torn through the middle