Who Are You?

I recognise your eyes,
yet so unfamiliarly tired,
skin hangs around them like pink
scooping venetian blinds.

I recognise your smile
yet lips so unfamiliarly narrow,
two deflating ridges on a once
fully inflated childs castle.

Hair that once gleamed as brightly as my husband's eyes
the moment our first child was born,
now grey, bobbed, instead
shining as frequently as the sun over London!

Skin, so thin, fragile, wrinkled
giving the appearance of a child's comfort blanket
cherished into middle age.

Yet as unfamiliar as you initially appear,
gazing into the depths of those ship wrecked eyes
sparkles a youthfully acquainted soul

I close my eyes,
take several
and away from the mirror I turn.

Why do I do this every morning?
When will I ever learn?

(July 2003)

by Hannah Mary Joint

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