Trees, desperate
to regain their youth
henna their hair
some blatently
some with discretion.
No–one is deceived.
Garish, or indiscreet,
their frizzed, dry locks
rustle like brittle paper,
combed out in handfuls
by October winds.
They will awake
one winter day
like aged Virgin Queens,
furious to be discovered
minus their wigs.
© The Estate of Dorothy Cowlin 1998–2021. All rights reserved.