We made masks of each other.
Each lay still under the tender fingers
of the other, felt the plaster grip
the hairline, tighten on the greased skin,
felt the gentle hands mould and caress
until with a grimace we released the cast
and each held our own face in our hands.
They lie drying side by side
on the June grass;
we recognise each other
but not ourselves
in these grave images.
One day one of us will view the other
as still as this, as quiet, as white,
will cry tears of unbelieving pain,
demand the right to hold again
their living lover's face, ask
why that vibrant self has gone,
and all that's left's a pale and static mask.
Janice Windle
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/journey-inwards-forecast/
