I look at the image, br A reflection in a mirror, br The soon to be ‘old me’, br Replaced by the new, br Someone different, br Yet the same, br Long blonde tresses, br Grown silently, br Un-noticed, br Neglected and un-cared for, br And soon to be rejected, br Cut blunt, br At the edges, br To lie discarded, br On a polished wooden floor, br And swept away, br For disposal, br A final resting place, br Amidst damp teabags, br And coffee grains, br And all manner of things, br Renamed as trash. br br I look at the image, br The reflection of the new, br Carefully and easily created, br By skilled hands, br And cold steel scissors, br Cutting swiftly, br Without a second glance, br Or remorse, br The new, flat and damp, br And teased and tempted, br By noisy warm appliances, br The old becomes new, br And emerges, br Like a butterfly in Spring.