This is what it is really like to get older (naturally)

Poet and artist Frieda Hughes reflects on beauty standards and the ageing process as she celebrates her 65th birthday

SO NOW I’M SIXTY-FIVE

The words sounded all wrong as I said them;

My birthdate aged me, a year older since Tuesday,

But my skin was only as compromised in its elasticity

As when I spoke to you last week; at least

I do not have inflated lips like inner tubes

That would have flapped in the breeze on the lakeside balcony

As I nibbled prawns and sipped champagne,

Or hyaluronic acid inflating my sagging cheeks,

Jowls, forehead and knees,

So that I no longer saw myself as “me” and my knees

Retained their integrity when inverted,

Nor dermal fillers in the backs of my hands

To disguise my life, as if I’ve never lived. These hands

Have embraced dying people, having loved them a lifetime,

Buried treasured pets, built walls, dug in plants and trees,

And painted skies; My hands have earned their place

At the ends of my arms, and the shape of my face has been moulded

By all the happenings that made me, even as my hair,

Strand by strand, loses its grip on colour.

I am what I am.