I’m not vain about ageing, but these veins in my legs have got to go

The poet and artist Frieda Hughes is quite happy to age without ‘tweakments’, as a rule, but a longing to wear shorts again sees her in a doctor’s office – and slightly overly keen about it

Sclerotherapy

So what if my lips lack the pillowy inflation

Of Restylane on monthly repeat

That would stretch the boundaries of belief

And defy reality? Mine will only deflate at a natural rate

In tandem with the rest of me. Nor will my tiger nails

Ever dig holes in my computer keys

With their sharpened points and nail-bar artistry,

Since I maintain mine plain and mute

Worn down in the garden dirt.

But the streams and tributaries that cobweb my legs

Are more than I can tolerate.

After too many years of dermal obscurity

Beneath trousers and long skirts

My appointment is with a doctor who will expirate

Those multiple scribblings,

And return some clarity to the surface of my skin,

So that I can wear a pair of shorts

Even though my knees are sagging.

I arrive early, so not to be late,

Only to find I have got the wrong date.