My blurred facsimile


the evening sunlight strikes weakly,
giving permission for my dusky shadow
long and lean,
from my ponderously treading feet
and paint a blurred facsimile on the grey concrete,
but, upon yellow-eyed examination, it occurs to me
that in days gone by, when my step was nimble,
my grin elastic, and my skin unwrinkled,
that just like me, my shadow had
a sharper edge to it

©Jane Paterson Basil


14 thoughts on “My blurred facsimile

    1. Thank you Calen, I thought you’d like it. Sometimes a wicked imp inside my head makes me write silly things like the cider-press poem, and sometimes I get an idea which refuses to work, but usually I’m reasonably happy with my poems. Occasionally, something miraculous works its way through my fingertips, and I am humbled, because I feel as if I had help from somewhere. Even less often, I write consciously write something really good that has been waiting inside my head, and I feel as if I’ve done it on my own, and I feel proud. This poem is one of those rare ones…

      Liked by 1 person

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