Document 1494

Miss Sixty

Author(s): Sheila Templeton

Copyright holder(s): Sheila Templeton

The morning I turned sixty, I stood in my kitchen
thinking about soup. Lentil, cullen skink, split pea
cock a leekie, vichysoisse, broth, even gazpacho
which gave me a headache,

so I took to the beach,
all blowing and striding and sea washed sky.
And ran as hard as I could, holding my arms out.
Pinned myself to the wind and flew, hanging
from my shoulders like a dress from a coathanger,

looking down at council workmen,
busy with solemn spades and wheelbarrows
shovelling up heaps of sand from the prom,
tipping it back on to the beach, where it lives,
but each winter, sneaks over, trying
to take over the town, creeping in,
like the sixty years of my life,
sidling up on me, piling up the decades.

I have not reached
the stage of trying to shovel
any years back, by tummy tucks,
face lifts or even just lying in my teeth.

But one thing I do know.
Soup doesn't have to be complicated.
In my kitchen, from today onwards,
I will make either Orangey-Red Soup.
Or Green Soup.

Leaving plenty of time for flying.

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Miss Sixty