Old

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I look into the mirror

And I am old.

I see my father there.

Although I am sure he didn’t look so old as I, though older, then.

From whence did this apparition coalese?

How were these grey tufts formed?

These rugged furrows that stretch across a landscape of flesh

Daily ploughed, immersed in water, as the sluice gates open

Upon skin laid fallow, scoured by the wind while,

At the far end of the parish, the Greenwood calls.

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Woods