I recognise her face travelling towards me
in the morning mirror -
unwelcome as old age,
inevitable as a Norse doom.

Her sly genes watch my vanity
highlighting difference,
evading transformation, painting
a careful reflection in the cold, foxed glass,

I am trying not to be her.
But sometimes, accidentally
her voice slips through
saying something about the weather,
Wrap up warm . . Let me know if you're late . .
Familiar, from the back of the car
Don't go too fast . .

At the end of the journey she's waiting,
frail as a bird whose bones
would snap in your fist.
Her spirit drawn to a core -
a small kernel of stored energy
cheating winter's leaf drop.

Her younger hands reach out.
I am wearing them like gloves -
big-knuckled, fine-skinned, meshed by veins.

© Kathleen Jones