Time And My Drawers

When I was a young woman
with a husband
small children
a house
and a job
time flew.
The lines that creased my face
were lines of
laughter, worry and care;
and time flew.
No time to worry about sorting my drawers.
Everything
was washed
dried, ironed
and put away;
stored hurriedly in cupboards and drawers.
Children rummaged
husband rummaged
I rummaged,
everywhere a confusion of colour and chaos
and time flew.

Now my drawers are tidy and neat;
my drawers
are strangers
to me
time hangs heavily.
My Drawers are as strange to me as my face is now;
each morning
when I look
into the mirror;
the lines I see are lines of age etched deep;
time is cruel.
That house has gone
that husband is dead
the children are grown and gone away;
time dwindles.
There is another husband,
a quiet man
a steady man
a good man.
Cupboards are clean and colour co-ordinated;
drawers neat
socks folded
lying serried like grey corpses awaiting burial;
I must do something with my time.