It’s no use, I can see it now
The mirror does not lie
I find myself looking at a man
That is me, yet is not me
And who looks vaguely familiar
And, although I cannot place him
I’m sure he is not a stranger
The fullness of his face
The receding hairline
Ebbs back from his face
In that same pattern
That I’ve seen in photographs
The sepia tones
Of many generations
That went before me
The darkness of hooded eyes
Looking back towards me
As if posing unanswerable questions
His fuller, uneven lips
His thickening jowls
His jaw-line set heavy
And the slackness of muscles
Draws deeper, longer lines
Within his sagging skin
And tells a story of its own
He returns my stare unblinking
His face implacable and calm
But tired, deadly tired
As if this will be the last time
That he will stand so still
And allow himself to be inspected
His features picked over
In the ghastly bathroom light
And at last I am forced to look away
Unable to hold his gaze any longer
And to make the excuse
That I am too busy
To spend more time
On this sad reflection
And I am left to wonder
If his eyes continue to follow me
Around the room
Long after I have stepped aside
Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012
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