Laughter lines, etched in time; Bark of an ageing tree,
Memories wrapped neatly in the folds of muscle,
They scatter on touch; expand and grow.
Stories your sight has stored, they shuffle and co-habit around your eyes,
Words, spoken and unspoken, crease around the weathered lips,
It takes a kiss to gather them all.
Your hands are lined with the feelings of a life well lived,
Your legs, weak soldiers of the war,
They tell stories of a life that now exists in shoe-boxes.
Ton coeur, beating with the magnitude of your being,
Ton coeur, strumming the old heartstrings,
Ton coeur ton coeur ton coeur.