Portrait

Sketch us now, love;
make the lines heavy beneath my eyes.
Let each wrinkle be a trembling of ageing hands
that scatter our memories across the page.

Draw a still life, love;
pencil in the arthritis just so.
Let me not move from the cage of my chair
as you hammer it down with manicured nails.

Paint the years, love;
spread the tears heavy over the canvas.
Let the water dilute the colours until peaceful,
hazy edges stain the history of our days.

Sketch us; draw us; paint us
and then, love, when the time does come,
burn us.