Remember a few thousand midnights ago
when a lover was someone you kissed and no more?
Those above-the-waist cuddles, no pressure below
to take midnight too far adrift puberty’s shore?

Remember how, gradually, innocence blurred
and focus grew sharp on ulterior aims:
contrivance of action and posture and word
turned child into player of dangerous games?

In the river a fly-fisher, crutch-deep in leather,
wasting the days of his fortieth June,
forgives every fish for whom he was too clever.
No prize to be cased in his evening saloon.

For it’s lighting-up time in the deepening sky
which is pierced by a solit’ry, silvery star.
The daylight is drained through its puncturing eye
and we watch for remembrance of all that we are.

And man on the box at the end of the news
saves the whale from extinction, the children from woe:
happy the amateur, pleased to amuse
what remains from a few thousand midnights ago.