Loopy Luna shines
Combing sky
Lighting her own face
Mirror
Head of State
Alone is his pyjamas
After the sycophants
Are all in their beds
The dictator, silent
Examines his image
By moonlight
Wrinkles and lines
Cratered temples
And soft-joweled planes
Surrounded by wealth
In the marbled rooms
Of a haunted palace
He did not inherit
But strives to display
To best advantage
For diplomatic reasons
Dreaming of leaner,
Keener days
Before he became
A political prisoner
Trapped and tamed
By the violent success
Of his own actions
Observations
Explosions of colour
In the monochromacity
Of the modern art room
At the Tate Britain
I sit and stare
As Titian hair atop
A riot of pink and green
Flounces past a
Barbara Hepworth
Pausing only to consider
Her own reflection
In a Modigliani
The shallow curves
Of a polished surface
Echo the movement
Of our livelier exhibits
Going Blonde
Five smooth hairs
Sit smugly on my brow
Staking their claim on my sanity
Tweezers forgotten on the carpet
The agony of plucking
Fingers shaking
Each unwelcome visitor
In the harsh grey light of dawn
Making the simplest remedy
The most painful
That one hair, evicted
Clings to my clothing like a child
Sobbing at abandonment
Unwilling and ashen
In stark contrast to my usual
Sombre-toned jumper
And wild auburn curls
I feel my age settle like a mask
Sewn to my temples
With threads of silver
Katherine Shirley 