I was a scruffy child, a tatterdemalion,
always told to “go and change –
you can’t go out like that.”
A not-much-smarter old lady now –
comfort prized way above style –
Mum looks down from heaven and sighs
“Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.”
And another change:
La barbe de Grandmère,*
torn out with an ouch
and a wince of hot wax today,
so that grandson can kiss
her newly-soft cheek
when he comes visiting on Friday.
written for Margo Roby’s Tuesday Tryout. She wants us to work on synonyms for change. My mind strayed, as usual!