In the beginning, she shone with a clear lustre.
People were scared to touch her, scared to spoil
that squeaky-perfect surface, clean and new.
Rains put paid to that, and winds blowing grit.
She ran with tears of grime and muck dried on her
and no amount of polishing could get her
back to how she'd been at first, pristine and smooth.
Then there were chippings, scrapes and accidents.
Branches fell down from trees and cracked her surface.
She stopped looking in mirrors, stayed in shadow,
hiding her ruined outside from sharp eyes.
No-one touched her. They feared contamination,
filth on their fingertips, dirt under nails.
She locked her door and swaddled herself in blankets
as if she was a baby: but she was old.
If you have any comments on this
poem, Kitty Coles would
be pleased to hear from you.