Beneath Jonathan Creek curls,
An Autumn cabbage, tumbleweed in full bloom,
Sit sunken cheeks, hollow grey,
Heavy set lenses and too thick frames,
Lengthening the shadows
Deepening the gloom, shrivelled like prunes,
More out of date than Fruit of the Loom.
A pale nail flickers upon her face, an itch
Perhaps, or a rip to fix?
Rubbing the sticks of sparse grey hairs
where it ought to be bare,
Strike your match on the furry top lip friction,
Watch it flare then burn to nothing,
A ponderous contradiction.

And yet her peach scarf screams
Look at me! Look at me! Look at me!
So full of life, so full of beans!
Yes I’ve been! Yes I still am! And yes I will be!
Forever beholden to the marionette strings
hanging beside my nose,
Sniffing at the cigarette smoke curls,
Deftly placed fingers raise a smile
Or so the stories go.

Sweeping down, overcast days swamp her slight frame,
Engulfing her body like a squid from the deep,
Hiding her figure like wool on sheep,
Resigned that it’s no longer her time,
Chunks of soured milk long past its prime
Yet an aura of authenticity is stitched into
Every crease and each cavity,
She weaves a web with a pen,
The spider scrawl of a diary
Unfurling before me.
I wonder what truths, flies and lies the book hides
And as if in silent response, she looks up.
We meet eyes.