touch

his nose looks like an after thought

a beautiful one

mast head or Mercedes car bonnet decoration

something square in its elegance

that – ridiculously – she wants to hold

it is not sexual

can’t imagine it growing in her palm

like Pinocchio

if the skin on

your fingers gives age away

she is very old today

this noble shape

cups lightly

into her hand

brings the same peace as

smooth flat stones

she used to skip across ponds

knowing now – as then

she will have to let go soon

leave her hand hovering empty mid air

but not yet

not while he is sleeping

unaware of her touch

and just how much

she needs to hang on

This poem published in Issue 8 of Page Seventeen, launched on Saturday 13th November, packed full of stories and poetry, that you can buy here.