Sex at Sixty
After your parents-on-holiday single bed
where we read the condom instructions
it was driving with great care and attention
in search of leafy farm tracks and laybys.
It was bracken-patterns on the knees
and cheeky flies on the bum, sunlight
burning through closed eyelids
and flashing off distant binoculars.
Now I prefer comfort, to wake beside you
cuddled up to morning glory, with no
tutting mother or breakfast-time children,
no need for anyone but each other.
But I still like the curtains and the window
to be open to the memories of sunshine.
If you have any comments on this poem, Sue Millard would be pleased
to hear from you.