Fifty years since you peeled your skin,
Soaking those unscreened kisses in,
It's not your wife but the surgeon uncovers
These long-lived love-bites of your sun lovers.
One to the breast, a hand's-breadth between
The left nipple and the shoulder's sheen.
One to the light-haired small of the back,
Soft to stroke but tender to smack.
And one on the outer forearm, curled
And coyly hidden in hairs, a pearled
Reminder of how you loved to drive
One-handed, left arm out, rolled sleeve,
Propping the wind, which flicked its whip
To the sun's indelible marksmanship--
A wild one's hickey, tiny but tough.
All you do now is tally them off.
If you've any comments on his poem, John Ridland would be pleased to hear from you.