Tuesday, 27 August 2013


Her breasts begin to sag, she is now known as the hag,
But, on her lips she still has the smile of the sun,
Her face marked & lined & her eyes are now near blind,
But, her sight still has the twinkle of pending fun,
Fingers now curling like claws, she lives behind closed doors,
But, her old touch is gentle & so very sweet & soft,
Feet, gnarled & hobbled by pain, her life, just memory´s stain,
But, on her voice of love, songs trill & on breezes waft,
Her old back´s now bent & her life´s now over & duly spent,
But, she still has her stories that she´s willing to tell,
Her hair, now thin & white as snow & gait now labored & slow,
But, she believes in Angels & the magic of Bridget´s well,
Her skin, gossamer of spider´s web, nose hooked as raven´s neb,
But, still with steely eye & determined jaw that juts,
Weak & losing verve & power, but nothing´s over till the final hour,
“But”, she says, “Remember dear, there is always a but”.

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