Growing old.

If I have to go blind,
let it be
from looking West
too often at sunset.

If I lose
my sense of smell,
and taste
grows muted by time,
may it be dulled
by the perfume
of fresh sheets
and the flavour
of mulled wine.

If I must go deaf
and hear neither
sound, nor tune
play violin
until my ears
cave in.

And if touch
should soften to
numbness
with the turning
of life’s full years
may I still find
our arms entwined
woven with love and
faded memories
of old tears.