The young are walking on the  riverbank
  arms around each other’s waist and shoulders,
  pretending to be looking at the   waterlilies
  and what might be a nest of some   kind, over
  there, which two who are clamped together
  mouth to mouth have forgotten about.
  The others, making courteous detours
  around them, talk, stop talking, kiss.
  They can see no one older than themselves.
  It’s their river. They’ve got all day.

  Seeing’s not everything. At this very
  moment the middle-aged are kissing
  in the backs of taxis, on the way
  to airports and stations. Their   mouths and tongues
  are soft and powerful and as moist as ever.
  Their hands are not inside each other’s clothes
  (because of the driver) but locked so tightly
  together that it hurts: it may leave marks
  on their not of course youthful skin, which they won’t
   notice. They too may have futures.