Glued to your mirror
like Narcissus to his pool,
youd apply your weaponry
of powder, shadow, rouge
enough to make fey beauty
more pronounced
but not enough to get told off at school.
Youd touch and retouch, blot it off, re-do,
your mother looking on with pride
as blue eyes grew more blue,
your skin blushed pink
beneath the make-up brush.
And I was awed yet horrified
such things were forbidden me.
At last wed leave, walking side-by-side,
you with poise, immaculate,
I in my heavy lace-up shoes
and wrinkled socks.
Gill McEvoy

If you have any comments on this poem,  Gill McEvoy would be pleased to hear from you.