Prawns, chocolate brazils -
even my secret weaknesses are inherited.
Photographs confirm it:
I am becoming you,
features, stance, expression,
the way I hold a cup.
Itís no longer as my mother used to say -
your familiar phrases slide
from my tongue with practised ease.
You, though, did not live to age.
So, older than you ever were,
in the mirror is that now the face
I would have loved to know?
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Gill Garrett would
be pleased to hear them.