When my Grandmother married
she filled her house with mirrors
everywhere a light that shouted out
the rights and wrongs of what she did.

Now, eighty years on, widowed
she has bared the walls,
the mirrors gathering
dust beneath the bed,

her life written out
in images she chooses
to forget, her mirrors
stern reminders of a youth

that has nothing left
to offer.

John Cornwall

If you've any comments on this poem, John Cornwall would be pleased to hear from you.