The mirror sits up in the attic, a cold, forgotten
Shard of 1920s chic that failed to make the
Cut to the 21st century, long before my time.
I sit, and watch the world go by,
Flying through the ages
So the dodo relived the life it missed,
Attached to the wardrobe of a high society lass
With her hair bobbed shorter than the cheeky
Hem of her skirts, cigarette-holder clutched
Coquettishly at hand,
Ready to meet the wealthy well-dressed lord,
Smiling wryly, young and deeply good-looking, but lost in a plume of
Smoky restaurants and illicit alleyways, in
Butterfly red lights and closed-door couture. A
Fashionable world of passionate climes.
I close my eyes and wonder.
I wander through the mirror that reflected old life,
Mirror images of people who danced all night;
They lived on Chanel No. 5 and liquored
Chocolates, and sensuously sensual fox-fur stoles,
They smiled a smile, and got a smile back,
Dripped over classy overtures and Parisian delights.
Then I open my eyes and smile back at history.
But the smile is disfigured, paralysed in the past.
Like the mirror, it faded and crumbled, recognised only in fragments.