her sharp, stiletto stance
tracing the delicate staccato steps
that twist her hips, painfully onwards.
Five over the counter bottled colours, do battle
with her now, grey hair.
Their copper tawdry glow
far out selling Blackpool’s bawdy neon lights.
Discounted bargain basement fragrances
intermingle with the smell of soured nicotine,
she’s her own walking pyrotechnic show
primed to explode.
Depressing how the age of a woman dictates her
upward stance – and yet
what of it:
outside that time, will always want to smear
She once of such vivid transcendent outlines
now viewing life, through eyes; that can no longer denote
her primary shades of youthful grandeur.