Glisten Under Each New Heaven Poem by Mark Heathcote

I’m still not my age at ‘47’
Inside me hops a child.
On one leg, like a raven:
Feathers - smoothed aback…
Glisten to heaven.

But all is crumbling, - now.
(If I’m not mistaken) – Anyhow –
“No vanity is full-proof,
You can’t fake the inside-mirror.
No” – “no Whatever”.

Ah, so you can still climb a ladder…
And dance on the roof…
And even split a few hairs…
But not those greying’s around
Your eyebrows ears or nose ok’.
You can dye and highlight.

Botox and fill at will…?
Pluck – slice and glue – stich back!
Pretend - you’re a happy-hippy,
Wild, white-haired sage!
“But bro' like I’m saying… here…
I still don’t feel my goddamn age”.

Even now, with ‘47’ years gauge
Inside me hops a doting child.
On one leg, like a raven:
Feathers - smoothed aback…
“Glisten under each new heaven”.