The Penalty a poem for 2009

The Penalty

Near the window burns a candle
Casting shadows on the floor
In a corner sits a lady
Shielding from a draughty door
Suffering from the damp and cold
The penalty for growing old.

She stirs the embers with twitching fingers
But flames have long since died
And no warmth comes from the tiny fireplace
And the old girl softly sighed
And down her cheeks the teardrops rolled
The penalty for growing old.

Should she make her way to bed
Or walk the empty streets
There’d be no comfort lying there
On torn and tattered sheets
Her plight to others had not been told
The penalty for growing old.

But soon her maker up above
Will take to his fold
But he’ll not make a penalty
For growing, growing old.