All dignity aside, the grey the groans, the grinding bones,
irascible insomnia and eyesight in decline...
but now’s the time, my brows decide... commit ecstatic suicide.
Of late they curl to startled dance before departing furrowed brow
and then – great! – reincarnate with dark panache on my top lip,
my granny tache.
I stab my eyes with mascara sticks
in vain attempt at repair, too late I fear to learn these tricks.
At school I played more boisterous marble games with Raynedine,
incontinent screams of laughter in hostel corridors
while other girls did hair and makeup,
boys and curls.
Bah, I give up.
I land with my grandson in a heap of sledges, snow and hysteria.
He stands, hands on hips, gazes lovingly up at
my balding brow and billowing lip, says Gogo, you look like a boy.
Why thank you I shout, slap a pantomime thigh
and we charge up the hill for another.
Bev Schofield 17