by Imogen Davies, Leighland Christian School
The Flowers That Grow from Ageing Minds
I don’t think I will ever grow old.
My hair won’t become grey and fuzzy.
My skin won’t crease, and my bones won’t ache.
I can’t imagine that would happen to me.
I see the old ladies who complain
Of hip pain and knee pain and back pain.
Do they envy my youth?
Do they look back on their past
And wish they had loved themselves a little bit more?
But I will become old, it is inevitable.
Whether my young bones become ancient dust in the ground,
Or I stay for another sixty years, refuse to leave the earth,
Until I can’t go any longer.
Will I look back on the pictures
Of clear skin and adventures
That I know I can’t hope to replicate anymore?
Will I wish I knew the beauty I had then?
I’ll look in the mirror at the grey hair and creased skin.
My bones will ache as I stand, staring.
And I’ll wish I was still pretty.
Still pretty.
It’s a shame I won’t see it until it’s gone.
But maybe, just maybe
There will be someone in the mirror next to me,
And he will look with the love
That only fifty years together can grow.
And he will not wish for past youth as I do.
He will remember when we were forty, and pity them,
For they had not known the last four decades, as we do.
He will think of when he was thirty
Pulling a ring box out of his pocket,
Hands sweaty and shaking.
He will think of when he was seventeen, as he is now,
And yearn to tell of everything ahead.
by Imogen Davies, Leighland Christian School