She raises her head slightly from the comfort of warm air
rising from the private space between skin and shirt,
and stares out of the steamed window.
She peers long into the distance – distant miles
and years have passed by her – growing older with time
to spend, but on what riches in return?
She can still hold a stare and make heads turn – even now,
they follow with jaws dropped as she slaps on her cycle
clips and leaves the local arena which smells of ale.
Eyes follow firm thighs and hips, both thankful for the years
of steep hill climbing and brisk walking.
She decides home is best for reflection well away
from the intrusive noise and incessant chirping of youth
biting at her heels. She exits the rowdy cottage style pub.
Age, she muses, brings with it its very own cloud,
and it is up to us how snowy white we keep it.
