On Your 48th. Poem by David Lewis Paget

And so to you my sweet, it comes
The point at which, three quarters gone
Life trickles through our fingers
Like the sand,
In some sad, damaged hour-glass,
That runs ahead of man.

Months pass in days, and weeks in hours,
And how we age – like flowers that wilt in time;
Though beauty lies, not in unblemished skin,
But deep inside;
And character and grace shine at our eyes.

We rarely speak of love, as once we did
With hot breath steaming at the window panes,
And where we, breathless, rode along
The rim of our content,
We now seek quiet comfort in green lanes.

I love you still, and more than you would know,
Love walks beside me on the golden sand,
It makes my heart beat faster
When you smile,
And leaps like lightning, when you touch my hand.

2 October 1998