Kissing

The young are walking on the riverbank
 arms around each other’s waist 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, Poems 1960-2000 (Bloodaxe Books, 2000)