We met, rich in our finery, bedecked
in the sumptuous rituals of time;
our measured movements proved us past our prime,
precision-practiced, severe and correct,

rehearsed, perhaps, as for a hackneyed play.
We drank each other in, assessing scents,
hues of wardrobe, slant of gait, testing sense
against sense, judging age in disarray,

contrasting how each seemed with what we knew,
or felt we knew, based on shared histories.
We played the game called, 'Hidden Mysteries',
stealthing in repose each telltale hint, clue,

sign of the times or well-worn lesson learned
at life's academy of heartfelt knocks;
in short, we kept hid the hands of those clocks
that mark our days, unflinchingly. We turned

each other's attentions towards the goal
of seeing what we wanted each to see,
towards the plane of what we hoped would be
regarded as our finest, truest rôle,

that of master or mistress of our years:
seasoned explorer, wise critic, safe hands.
So passed the hours, until the massed demands
of our lives, encompassed by other spheres

of influence, impressed their various
needs and expectations, and we parted,
heading home to where each day had started,
leaving our past to fade, precarious

yet precisely balanced, a fog of myth
to braid our long-discarded youth up with.

M. Peacock 17-19325
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