Thursday 11 April 2013

Skimming Stones




Surely only a handful of summers have passed
Since I jumped the white chalked squares
On the shiny black slugs of melting tarmac?
Long halcyon days filled with playgrounds and parks
In which hung a shimmering heat-haze
Which levitated above the hot speckled concrete.
Holidays of sipping iced-lemonade, with skin tinged pink
From the rays which danced in the palest of blues.
Surely only a small bouquet of nights have passed,
Each nocturnal hour filled with soft scents of blossom,
Since I read of the Famous Five by the landing's pale glow.

And now my reflection is patterned with lines of middle age.
How did I sink like a painted pebble into these murkey depths?
Did I skim that stone before it sank?
Polish it against my hip before hurling it
Seawards; to bounce and pirouette upon the surface?
And why does my mother's face look back from the mirror?
Is it a trick of the light? Her tired eyes, her lips,
Puckered with a life of coversation.
A private prank played on me by shadows, as
The poised pencil which draws the circle of life,
Rises, tick by slow tock, to meet its starting point.

By Angela Barton

3 comments:

  1. The mystery of getting older. It doesn't happen gradually. Suddenly, we're there.

    ReplyDelete
  2. You've captured the childhood memories and resemblance to our mothers very well, Ange!

    ReplyDelete
  3. It's scary stuff isn't it Mariam? Thanks for popping by! xx

    Thank you so much Rosemary. xx

    ReplyDelete