Thursday, 31 August 2017


Aging by Sacha Hope

Woe betide winter eyes staring lifelessly at the wall,
Years waning, skin failing, hair greying.

What devilry is this?

Was I not in the cusp of youth but a few summers back?
Crows leave their feet,
Skin burn and sag,
The youthful bounce in shiny mane replaced by crackling straw.

When did vision become foggy?
When did it become effort to play?
Why would youth not stay?

Woe betide those poor fools seeking,
Desperately clinging to fleeting spring days,
For we all must surrender to winter and if we are lucky,
Being graced with age, golden and sage.

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