Reflection

There's something tragical about a glass
hanging there mutely absorbing the world,
silently soaking daily scenes up as
life parades past with quick looks in a whirl.

As I pass I glance at this one, sideways,
it shows Mum's coats still hanging in the hall
though these are from our past, our yesterdays,
there they are forlorn on hooks on the wall.

This was the mirror Mum used, as Mums do,
bustling in and out of our old rude home
and strangely, without my specks, as I grew,
I would glimpse her, in this glass, though alone.

Now, as I squint shortsightedly I see
With the passing years, Mum becoming me.