A Touch of Red

Each day that passes
she dies, a little more.
With trembling hands
clasps her mirror.
Winces, switches it round
to the forbidden side,
the side that magnifies.
Sees a lifetime
flash before her.

The gangling schoolkid –
pigtails all-awry,
the blonde bombshell
who won hearts and minds
dressed in cap and gown,
the bouffant-haired bride –
bouquet of columbine.

Half opens a drawer, fingers
her brush and comb.
Sighs as she shuts it again.
A tasselled scarf snatched
from the back of a chair –
green with blue stripes,
deftly winds it turban style
around her head,
quite adept she’d become.

She pinches her cheeks
but the pallor remains.
‘No apples today then?’
With a smile she recalls
her Mother’s words.
‘Look on the bright side.
Life’s a bitch sometimes,
but it don’t last for ever.’
Quite a comedian, her Mum.
Maybe a dab or two of rouge
Yes. A touch of red
would see her through.