Learning to grow young
Sheila Jacob
As for those other
bold brave hopeful words
they’re inked on paper kites
set free to follow the wind
and the seagulls’ cry.
I need new words
for a changing time
when seasons bow
like walking-sticks
towards a wintry sun.
Will they come
from this ageing woman
whose hands fold moth-like
over an empty page?
Her face is contoured
with sixty-something years,
her hair mostly white
beneath its salon-tinted brown,
her eyes so dry they weep.
Inside her heart
she has a song.
I watch, listen.
The moth-wings
catch the glow
of it,
open and dance
across a rustling page.