The Vessel

The old woman sits,
her milky eyes see nought now
but shapes bent out 
by the flames of the fire beside her.

Her bones still strong,
her skin the give away,
made as it is of the sheerest silk
crumpled and dyed in hues of purple and blue.

She can no longer hear the stories
which now fill her belly, her heart:
her mind, though bright, has absorbed
all the cries for attention it can absorb.

So she sits and others gather
While she pours forth her timelessness,
speaking of the love she learned
in a lifetime of heartache and joy.

A strong voice radiates her light, her dark,
valueless and priceless in equal measure.
She is who she is with no apology
and all who hear her rest in that.

Thoughts of ageing on being greeted by a bus driver

There was a time, not so long ago,

When wherever it was that I went,

Whether I dressed super glam, very smart,

Or with a more casual bent,

That I'd be addressed as Mademoiselle, Miss,

Señorita or similar name,

Yet now it is Ms, Señora or Madame,

And it doesn't feel quite the same!

When did it change, why did I not notice?

What happened to spring missy me?

I can't help but wonder what might happen next -

What might the following clue be?

A mortgage, a marriage, kids and a dog,

Listening to radio four;

Feeling the aches in my body post-dance

That never were there before?

Watching grey hairs start to sprout on my head

Needing glasses to read a page?

I now understand why I was told to be grateful

That I never looked my age!