Yes, i know I am early at the bus stop this week - and it is pretty cold standing here in the snow - but today and tomorrow are busy days with folk to lunch and hospital visiting, so I am posting it early so that it is one less job to do.
This week's challenge was to write a poem about ourselves - TFE even suggested that if all else failed we were to tip out our handbags and describe ourselves from their contents. Obviously he knows a thing or two about the inside of ladies' hanbags, doesn't he?
Here is my contribution, and it doesn't involve handbags at all.
Where has she gone, that slender girl
with shining hair and pale, clear skin?
I look in the glass and see no trace
of that young girl; although within
my head, she's just the same.
The thickened waist, the greying hair,
the creaking joints and wrinkled face;
all tell me tales of passing time.
Yet in my head they have no place
In this life's ageing game.
Inside December still gives way to June.
I sing the same song, dance to the same tune.
Some cultures cover mirrors when you die,
but 'til that time, my mirror does not lie.