A daughter
of far off
primeval,
proletarian
Pontypridd,
unaware of
Mark Twain’s
dictum that
age doesn’t matter
if you don’t mind,
she hated with a
passion like
Dylan Thomas
the idea of aging
with gentle grace;
it went against
the grain of
one who had
seized the day
of youth with
romantic zest
in Swinging London.
She felt depressed
by a volume of
poems on aging,
its joys and ills
distressed her.
But she kept
her figure `til
the day she fell.
Lulled by the
sweet, sedate
rhythms of a
passionate
friendship four
decades long,
I only found out,
after her funeral,
as you do,
just how very
much I had
loved
her.
Words by David Faber
Photo by Henry Paul on Unsplash
Tulpa Magazine 