by Adrian Manning

whichever way you slice it
there are echoes of my mother,
my grandfather and on some days
my brother catching my mirror’s eye
the hair is receding like wild horses
over the hills and there are ridges
and furrows forming where
smooth patches of pale land once lay
tired eyes and marked, dented skin
follow through the days
the mouth has dropped
with experience and sorrow
but there is still a glint in the pupils
that suggest the child is still alive
in there somewhere mischievous, playful
and not giving in just yet
dissatisfaction and reluctant satisfaction
in equal measure
a coming to terms
an acceptance
a forgiveness
of myself

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This was written upon the reflection of myself seen literally in the reflection of the mirror now as compared to when I was younger.

IMAGE: “Not to Be Reproduced” by René Magritte (1937).


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Adrian Manning hails from Leicester, England, where he writes poems and is editor of Concrete Meat Press.