Kissing

The young are walking on the riverbank,

arms around each other’s waists and shoulders,

pretending to be looking at the waterlilies

and what might be a nest of some kind, over

there, which two who are clamped together

mouth to mouth have forgotten about.

The others, making courteous detours

around them, talk, stop talking, kiss.

They can see no one older than themselves.

It’s their river. They’ve got all day.

Seeing’s not everything. At this very

moment the middle-aged are kissing

in the backs of taxis, on the way

to airports and stations. Their mouths and tongues

are soft and powerful and as moist as ever.

Their hands are not inside each other’s clothes

(because of the driver) but locked so tightly

together that it hurts: it may leave marks

on their not of course youthful skin, which they won’t

notice. They too may have futures.

-- Fleur Adcock, from The Incident Book