April and September

a poem by Christine Anne Shaw, UK

A fragrant mist of "Kylie" scents the air;
I turn to see young Beth with spray in hand,
fresh from the foaming bubbles in her bath,
her dark hair, damp and loosened from its band.

As she prepares to settle for the night,
I see her girlish features look my way.
The tomboy who has conquered woodland trees,
as pretty as the cherry blooms in May.

No doubt my satin purse with all its tricks,
which help erase my fine lines now in place,
will soon be borrowed by her eager hands,
to plaster thick foundation on her face.

A pity that our young ones grow too fast
and childhood days are never built to last.

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