by Richard Vince

Every time I remember, it seems
More appropriate: slow, heavy,
Deliberate steps punctuated
By falls as the heavens come
Gradually into view then
Slip away once again.

Perhaps her metaphor was
Different; I never asked what
Engendered her desire for
A distant celestial body, or
Even if that was the entity
Of which she dreamed and sang.

Did her child like dreams,
Her naïve fantasies, keep her
Eternally youthful or age her
Prematurely? To me, she was
An intriguing mixture of young
And old, the well worn cliché of
World weary eyes in a teenage face.

As time went by, my slow mind
Caught up with her fast life,
And the enigma, at last,
Was cracked: the bringer of her old age
Was the same I had seen work
Its dark magic on others before,
Swallowing year after year of young life
Into its widening mouth.


Posted on 09/08/2019
Copyright © 2020 Richard Vince

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