The bodies of young men are firm and
brown all over, silky skinned they
smooth move like dolphins rolling
fluidic in the fluttering slip of sheet.
The eyes of young men are brown flecked hazel
when shirts the colour of new shoots in the apple tree
or the very green of apples themselves
float languid across their chests.
The hearts of young men are patient and calm
not furtive or selfish as the middle aged tell us,
they share, they say 'wait for me to help
I'm here and not hurrying away,
with me the job takes half the time and is half as heavy'.
The hands of young men are slow in loving
they have no sense of time hurrying us on
they do not hear the creaking tread of hours
along the hallway.
Their bodies have no need to rush
revelling in the flesh of women, wave on wave on wave
winding, twining their loving selves long into night into day.
The hearts of young men have been hurt,
they are not saved from pain by being young,
but have learned already loss and grief.
They too fear its sting
its long graze, deep spike,
leaving a dull ache long after the wound has healed.
The lives of young men have been touched by death
they know the souls of those drowned in cars in
the Brisbane River, of those with broken necks when
mistakes of judgement threw the bike too high, too wide,
too skewed it slewed straight into the winged claws of death.
The farewell of young men is sweet with kindness,
tender in parting, they look for friendship
after the body has cooled
and what remains is memory, the journey shared
that wandered back past the years to the wildness inside,
the girl, momentarily forgotten in the
weary tug and push of midlife routine.
Young men are not yet touched by age -
that's all.
From Fiery Waters
