Skin

 True beauty can be found in the smile in an elderly lady’s eyes and in the wrinkles on her face. It is proof of a life well lived.

Skin

Her skin was a road map.

A biographical cover of her life.

She lifted her arm to the light and noticed

her skin was as fragile as a butterfly wing.

Now she could see her own map in 3D

The colours had changed she noted sadly, roads

on the map once blue were now purple, and

her skin was quite speckled with brown spots,

which were as soft and intricate as those on a hen’s egg,

so delicate, the shell encasing new life,

with hopes for the future, like she had once.

Now her skin had become like tissue;

a soft shroud enfolding a precious gift.

She had become the family heirloom, 

carefully wrapped in her skin

to be stored away for ever.

copyright  Diana Leighton October 2011

Enough wine - she said.

Enough Wine

Enough wine -  she said

Holding out her hand and

covering the glass.

I’d like some more

but I daren’t,  
I am on my own.

If I have one glass

they will smile indulgently.
If I have two glasses

they will frown and quietly

pass comment on my life.

So I will sit here - floating

on the conversation around me.

Then I shall discreetly pick up

my handbag - which secretly holds

my courage in a clear liquid -

and leave.

Copyright Diana Leighton October 2011
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

Skin

 

Speckled egg.

Skin
It was a road map.
The biographical cover of her life.
She lifted her arm to the light,
it was as fragile as a birds wing.
Placing her fingers in front of a candle flame,
as she had done when a child;
she could see the biographical map in 3D
The colours had changed she noted sadly, roads
on the map once blue were now purple, and
her skin was quite speckled with brown spots,
as soft and intricate as those on a hen’s egg,
so delicate, the shell encasing new life,
with hopes for the future, like she had had once.
Now her skin had become like tissue;
a soft shroud enfolding a precious  gift.
She had become the family heirloom, 
carefully wrapped  in her skin
to be stored away for ever.


(C)Diana Leighton, October 2011