You wear your years so well, my love, you know—
Three decades hence, yet still you seem a child;
But time like rivers ever onward flow—
Perhaps in love ones’ eyes are then beguiled.
No earthly flower could hold its bloom as you,
Against the seasons wear of wind and sun;
When other beauty lies in wrinkled ruin,
Your fairest lease shall then have just begun.
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty” it has been said;
Perhaps this then explains the present state
Where your fair smile is but your truth expressed,
And not some mortal hue enslaved to fate;
If this be such, this question may arise—
Is beauty truth that time can turn to lies?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.