I decide to do it free, without a rope or net. First, the old brogues, dusty and cracked; an easy scramble onto his trousers, pushing into the weave, trying to get a grip. By the overhanging shirt I change direction, traverse along his belt to an earth-stained hand. The nails are splintered and give good purchase, the skin of his finger is smooth and thick like warm ice. On his arm I discover the glassy ridge of a scar, place my feet gently in the old stitches and move on. At his still firm shoulder, I rest for a while in the shade, not looking down, for climbing has its dangers, then pull myself up the loose skin of his neck to a smiling mouth to drink among teeth. Refreshed, I cross the screed cheek, to stare into his brown eyes, watch a pupil slowly open and close. Then up over the forehead, the wrinkles well-spaced and easy, to his thick hair (soft and white at this altitude), reaching for the summit, where gasping for breath I can only lie watching clouds and birds circle, feeling his heat, knowing the slow pulse of his good heart.
Source of heat and fuel for life Beautiful at the horizon Painting clouds and sky We bask and burn in her glory And she sits supreme at system centre Girdled by her planets Visited by stray comets Regally burning Interior electrons impede her light Rendering our glowing orb opaque Not that you can see this It would burn your eyes out
That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire Consumed with that which it was nourish’d by. This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
by William Shakespeare
This sonnet needs to read out loud. It is addressed to a younger lover….