Help the (Middle) Aged

Old enough to know better
We lay out in the crisp, damp grass
In our Sunday best
And made no mention of the clouds
That looked like Groucho Marx or flamingos.
Instead we let our toes toy with the idea of touching;
Coyness getting the better of them eventually.
Instead I marvelled at her eyes
(Two neighbouring discotheques competing for custom).
Instead we talked and we listened in turn.

Half a lifetime away
And we may have danced through the fountain
Fully clothed
Or turned cartwheels
Until the flamingos turned pink and took wing.
Perhaps we are too long in the trousers now
To fall for Cupid’s trickery twice.
Perhaps Freya and Radha and Kama
Can see that we are middle-aged
And able to handle things on our own for once.

It’s difficult to say for sure
It is a foreign land to me it seems,
Virgin territory.
It would appear that my compass was broken before
And my map had been held upside down.
But wherever this is we find ourselves
We seem to speak the language.
Wherever this is that we are
The customs suit us well.
Whatever this country turns out to be
We’ll be fine; they welcome the middle-aged.