A Travelling Age

Beloved, I am old today.

The hollows of my bones are packed full

of fine sand, bright mica-flecked

but muddied by marrow, clotting the hours

into years. I can hear the creak of

my fossilising shell. Read to me, please -

my eyes water so, my hands shake.

The words have gone from me,

as if I were young again. Little one,

so light and quick, catch them

and I will hold them warm in my aching hands,

I will store their letters in the little bronze box

with the small white stones and the chestnuts.

We both scavenged the forgotten places once,

alone: children of the edgelands.

I will be young again tomorrow,

maybe. I will pack these years away

in a travelling case, for later: as feathers,

as potsherds, an ammonite, a verdigris'd coin.

(Yours are pressed between the pages

of a botanical handbook, slowly fading.)

I will not mind if we stop to rest;

you had a head start, all those strides ago.

Take my hand, beloved, guide me.

We have treasures yet to find.