Not beautiful yet.
She has to learn
From magazines, shop windows
And celebrities.
Her brown feet have sand
between the toes.
Her brow is furrowed with
intense concentration
As she wonders about
the man who fascinates her
But he had not returned
her look, or picked up
the paper that she dropped.
Echoes of her mother,
“You’re still a child!”
And her desperate reply,
“I’m fifteen!”

Not beautuiful yet.
She hasn’t learnt
to mascara long lashes,
Rouge her pale cheeks.
A rebellious mouth innocent
of lipstick.
With hair swept up in
a pony tail, which could flow
in chestnut lights to
her waist.
Quick glances as her blue
eyes watch a bronzed man
playing football by the sea.
One day he will look
But it will be too late
Another will take his place.
She will be sixteen and


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