OLD LADIES

They're hoary and wrinkled as aged tortoises,
delicate and faded as antique lace
that if handled would fall to pieces.
Old ladies sit huddled together in pairs
on benches in the centre of Millennium Park
and pull their shawls closer with unsteady hands
around bony shoulders in vain attempts
to ward off the cool summer breeze.

Knitting needles clack competitively as
memories are embellished and shared with pride:
places they've been, things they've seen, who they've been -
edges of fact and fantasy blurred
by forgetfulness and wishful thinking.
Aah those children, grand and great-grand children -
such paragons of loving family support
(whom they see only once in a decade, with luck).
Well it's not out of choice, it's because they're so busy!

A girl passes by, heavily tattooed,
in mini skirt and stilettos, with myriad piercings.
"Disgraceful!" they mutter with disdain in unison,
with much tutting and vigorous shaking of heads.
Have they really forgotten the years of their youth
and the dashing Airmen of World War II
whom they vied with each other to try to impress:
all painted nails, scarlet lips and gravy browned legs,
while older women labelled them tarts !

At teatime old habits call them home,
and by sunset they've finally made it there.
From cots barred in like hamster cages,
in pink hairnets these old ladies sip cocoa and laugh
at comedians on oversized TVs 'til eleven,
then it's lights-out - a strict rule of the home.
But ageing is merely a state of mind:
sleep isn't for those rebellious few
who sneak out the back for a much craved fag
and a snog with the Colonel, now sixty years retired.