​All that we’d come to know, 

Had been coated, 

In layers and fine films

Of cobwebs and dust,

Obscuring and distorting

The faces of us, 

Reflected in mirrors,

As if we had somehow settled – 

For less than our worth. 

On any given Sunday, 

We are given the chance – 

To blow off the cobwebs, 

Wipe down the dust, 

And begin again,

Faces in mirrored glass, 

Shining and free, 

Reflecting real life, 

And real living,

Like gold dust – 

To those who know it. 

Kevin Brown © 21.08.2016