That's so weird. I just posted a poem I wrote when I was 18 and mentioned in the post that I am now 55. And looking through the poems I wrote when I was 18, I found this one, called "Fifty Five"... although it is actually about a grandmother...
Anyway, here goes....
FIFTY FIVE
Legs and loins embellished by bracken and blue roses
is photogenius itself;
but should the skin sever and fold,
the hair curl and rust,
one would hesitate
and even perch uncomfortably on the edge,
not really knowing how parrots feel.
This metamorphic couch,
undone in senescence,
was once upside green grass, rainbow chaste,
shining springs, middle clasped.
Time turned and hand me downs
revealing the fraying of fine stitches;
woman, also held by clockface cruelty,
garnished;
winter slush sprayed her hair,
fifty five year fingers took to prayer
and willingly
fell in love
with he, who for two score years
eluded her
and yet reappeared
in the not so brighter than bright glow,
five columns, eleven rows,
Woolworths' candles,
"blow them out Grannie, make a wish".