In cellars kept

Through my fingers

Through my old eyes
the sun and smiles
of death declined
to seize the fragile flesh
of youth.
Through my aging ears
of patience shorn
the raging waves
of summer worn
in sleep.
Through my fingers
by your breath
still touched
memories tender
sooth love’s strains.
In all the sighs
and laughs collected
the lives I shared
in sleep reflected
may rest where
in moonlight
they might be detected.

Dr T.P. Wilkinson writes, teaches History and English, directs theatre and coaches cricket between the cradles of Heine and Saramago. He is also the author of Church Clothes, Land, Mission and the End of Apartheid in South Africa. Read other articles by T.P..