These days, the mirror is getting to be
Her dearest friend.
'Good morning mirror!' she trills
in her best RP salutation.
Her face looks increasingly like a suit
stuffed into hand luggage on a long haul -
one crease in particular looks thrillingly
like a scar from a knife fight.
She runs an index finger down its smooth vertigo,
then begins to brush her long,
dry, thinning hair, singing a lullaby
in a language she can no longer think in,
grey strands coming away with the bristles
in threes, tens, great wretched clumps.