The blue that startled his heart has faded:
blue-grey like denim now her eyes by candlelight
across the table -- and he knows the fingerprints
of time are on him, too, though candle's bloom
is less truthful than the unrelenting sun.
He knows them both to be weathered in the cascade
of the years, beyond redress -- still, his hand
which has crept without volition over the linen
to clasp hers, touches, not the flesh time mars,
but the undimmed radiance of her love, pulsing
stronger for the passage of the years since first
he touched her. His hand tightens over hers
in that familiar reflex which has saved him,
times beyond remembering, from drowning.
- Tony Scanlon