and when we’re fifty-three
we’ll have a house with a sea view and a stove top kettle.
There’ll be a cat called Steve
and you’ll put on red slippers to fetch the newspaper.
I don’t know where we’ll be,
Cornwall, Marrakech, Porto,
all I know is that I’ll race you to the cupboard every morning
and you’ll hide my glasses every evening
and we’ll make every day a game.
When we’re sixty-two
we’ll sleep naked in the middle of the bed
and your heavy hands will follow my wrinkles,
trace the stories in my worn thin skin.
For the one million and thirteenth time,
I’ll push what’s left of your hair out of your eyes
and go in for a kiss
but ambush you,
with a lick on the nose.
When we’re seventy-four
I’ll smack your butt in the kitchen
as you take out the turkey,
and our daughter of fourty-three will sigh and tell us
get a room,
so we’ll sneak away to the pantry,
and steal kisses by the roast potatoes.
And when we’re eighty-one
I’ll ask you if you love me
and you’ll wink and say
nah, you’re just handy to keep around
and I’ll stick my tongue out at you,
and you’ll put your hand in mine,
that space that’s made
just for you.
(Published in The Sound of Winchester, January Issue 2018)