The Sisters (Poetry)

They have gone from childhood days
to a beige and chunky middleage
with hardly a pause for breath
no silly girlish interval
of pastel and experiments
with fashion — no wild gigglefest
teen angst concerning valentines
or even vaguely naughty times
they were too staid for that
always older than their years
a cruet set of sisters now
so similar in shape and size
they come and go — live out their lives
in a small flat the edge of town
a sameness to each passing day
they slide towards a dull old age
resigned to winter’s iron grey
caught deep in its rut they stay

No future lures with mad excess
of one last stab at wantonness
they dare not think the world forgives
extravagance — they don’t know how
to break out of the dreary mould
for such ideas blow hot and cold
but never have the courage to
transform to action — fear cuts through
and keeps all passion firmly locked
in some forbidden rusty box
and if sleepless in their beds
they lie apart — left wondering
what might have been — then nothing’s said
to rock the equilibrium
of their frail boat upon a sea
calm with mediocrity
so continue little lives
sisters always — never wives