Old Love

Their hands
fold into one another
as do paper dolls:

not two separate but
one continuous; this
is not the love
of silk and
fire

but that of
welded breaks made
strong, stronger
than before,

steel
that may yet be defeated
but refuses to lose,
becomes plastic
under pressure,
reforms, sculpture
garden hands,
could be called
great art if it were not
natural for these two.

And their eyes!
Set into mapped
faces, clear
as seafront mornings
after fog’s burned away,

but they are so still,
so still…

Alive? Yes.
Whatever comes next
they are alive now
and no telling,
they may remain so
after what we call death.

Whatever you say
of this, however you
call out or disregard
the forged hands
and the still eyes,

old love is alive here.
And to prove it,

with his free hand
he
(trembling)
brushes a crumb
from her chin.