Old Image Poem by Charl JF Cilliers

The skin is drawn thin
over the frail bone

of a skull
almost luminous

dark eyes staring
from deep eye sockets.

I cradle it
in my hands

each morning
as I lift it

from where it lay

some half-recognised
ceremonial act.

I blow a faint mist over
the empty eyes

the sour breath of surprise
in the open mouth

as if it, too, acknowledged
me in the mirror.

Hands cradling it gently, I watch
my hollow eyes staring at me from a misty place.