An old woman

This is not my face
Or my feet or the flesh hanging off my frame
These are not the hands that
Touched your shoulder tenderly
The eyes that dared to eye your own
In front of your father
Are long gone.

Look at me; I am she!
I am the one she was
(If not a little bitter)
For the blisters from the churning return
And splinters hurt
But butter cannot heal.

And you, no wiser but delivered alone
To that dry place
Cracked and wry as my face has become

Goodbye my unrequited love
Goodbye, one so adored

Know that I am shrivelled and I am withered and where
Bares the mark of love on me?
Washed away a thousand times
The wine-stain has faded into the carpet
My grandson helped to wash.

Summer is passing for the last time.
I sit on a plastic chair on the lawn
Hearing again your sigh:
“This place is a far cry from paradise”
I laugh now, strong, real, bemused
My legs do not ache but I am tired
And slip, smiling
And touch your shoulder again.