The Image Poem by David Lewis Paget

I've been looking in the mirror
Every day since I was three,
Till a week ago I looked again
And saw it wasn't me.
For this haggard face with wrinkles
And grey hair that should be black,
Took my place within the mirror,
And it stood there, staring back.

Sure, it registered surprise and seemed
To stare, and be in shock,
And behind me in the mirror stood
Our old grandfather clock,
It was ticking off the moments,
All that I had left of life,
So in case it was an omen, then
I thought I'd call the wife.

‘Can you see that ancient visage
In the glass, Penelope?
It's supposed to be my image
But I think it isn't me, '
And Penelope had stood and stared
Then shook her greying hair,
‘Yes, that scar was on your left cheek, dear,
But now it isn't there.'

I was staring at the visage and
It gave me quite a fright,
For that scar upon my left cheek now
Showed firmly on the right.
And the parting in my hair was not
Just where it used to be,
For most everything was back to front,
So who the hell was he?

‘There's a demon in the mirror, '
I exclaimed, ‘it has my mole,
And it's come here from the devil just
To claim my mortal soul, '
So I seized a ball pein hammer and
Attacked the mirror glass,
Till it shattered into tiny shards,
That's seven years, alas!

We've not allowed a mirror in
The house, from then to now,
We won't invite a demon in,
We'll keep him out, somehow.
We know we both are ageing, but
We're not as bad as that,
Penelope will paint her face,
While I just wear a hat.

18 November 2017