Aged forty-one, she stirs; one eye inspects the alarm.

There’s no error; the constant ringing was previously planned,

Rising slowly, gracefully, and deliberately, she reaches for the switch,

Then grabs the drab dressing gown that hangs close to hand.

Showered, moisturised, and deodorised, she peers sheepishly 

Into the dressing-table mirror, and resigningly sighs.

In less than an hour, she’ll walk through the door, ready for the world

First, foundation, then mascara, then those other applied lies

She straightens the duvet that lies crumpled upon the bed.

Slowly, twisting the handle clockwise, she opens the vertical blind

Allowing the morning sun to walk in and naturally illuminate.

Looking back on youth, this wasn’t the future she had pined.