The ImageA Poem by David Lewis PagetI’ve been looking in the mirror Every day since I was three, Till a week ago I looked again And saw it wasn’t me. For this haggard face with wrinkles And grey hair that should be black, Took my place within the mirror, And it stood there, staring back. Sure, it registered surprise and seemed To stare, and be in shock, And behind me in the mirror stood Our old grandfather clock, It was ticking off the moments, All that I had left of life, So in case it was an omen, then I thought I’d call the wife. ‘Can you see that ancient visage In the glass, Penelope? It’s supposed to be my image But I think it isn’t me,’ And Penelope had stood and stared Then shook her greying hair, ‘Yes, that scar was on your left cheek, dear, But now it isn’t there.’ I was staring at the visage and It gave me quite a fright, For that scar upon my left cheek now Showed firmly on the right. And the parting in my hair was not Just where it used to be, For most everything was back to front, So who the hell was he? ‘There’s a demon in the mirror,’ I exclaimed, ‘it has my mole, And it’s come here from the devil just To claim my mortal soul,’ So I seized a ball pein hammer and Attacked the mirror glass, Till it shattered into tiny shards, That’s seven years, alas! We’ve not allowed a mirror in The house, from then to now, We won’t invite a demon in, We’ll keep him out, somehow. We know we both are ageing, but We’re not as bad as that, Penelope will paint her face, While I just wear a hat. David Lewis Paget
© 2017 David Lewis PagetReviews
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