Jean Watkins about Jean more poems
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published in Mslexia , Issue 35, October 2007
Ninety
From her party she had gone upstairs,
stayed a long time. I looked
round her door and saw her sitting,
just sitting at the dressing table.
Her mirror image was a stranger.
The smiles had gone, the set of her mouth
was grim; her life-spark shuttered.
She was so old, so tired;
remote as a toad
who has lived a thousand years.
I crept away, knowing she saw
only a blur in the glass that wounded me.
Jean Watkins
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