The sins of the children

in tune with the shift of time
no foolish shame conceals their powdered age
their buttoned-up cardigans come in beige and pastel shades
their skirts, pleated or flaired, sensible and staid
a woolly coat and scarf keep the chill away

while matt skin is still a necessity
the perm and blue rinse have receded into history
these days grey, wispy hair is no sin

their possessive smiles iron out the shallower creases
as they show you proud pictures of anticedents
young faces aglow with a silent promise to succeed

if at night they seep shameful secrets
they carefully slough the stain away in the shower
and a sweet spray of freesia or carnation
which breathes clean air in my direction

I try but fail to discern
a whiff of the sins of their children
but quickly learn that if the offspring ever erred
they have dis-allowed the dirt to cling

I admire the gentle way they dance in partner to the days
though if their flowery fragrance wafts too near
I’ll turn aside or even back away,
for fear that they may intuit my disgrace

I played the game of mums and dads
brave soldiers and superheroes out to save the planet
and now in my little box I cringe
a whimpering child in the faded denim uniform of youth
still waiting to grow into it
and yet
like a physical thing
the build-up of second-hand filth
from the sins of my children
stubbornly adheres to the sticky folds
of my sixty year-old skin

©Jane Paterson Basil