Old, torn lace
hanging draped
over a sunkissed face.
We’re old as a species
though the planet thinks us young.
…
Paint that scales
off house facades –
crackled pavements
worn by decades.
Weathered, wooden fences –
weathered, broken tiles.
Weathered, petrified
concrete – stretching miles.
Stiff, unbending people.
Feet that keep on coming.
Weathered fossils clinging –
wanting to stay young.
Green sprouts are tearing
at concrete coffin-spaces
leaving old, torn lace
meshes in their places.
…
We’re old as a species
though the planet thinks us young
and sooner than both know
we shall have been and gone.