This poem was not for publication. That would be low. It was probably not even worthy of publication, rushed and flawed as it was. But it demanded to be written. The words itched beneath her fingernails the minute she left Downton. It had been a short trip, but longer than some of the other's. Mama's increasingly frail state demanded Edith's presence at Downton for longer periods of time.
It was not a particularly nice poem. Indeed, it suggested some rather nasty sentiments. But better those feelings be expressed in a way that caused no harm, and she simply had to admit them. She could not deny that surge of triumph she felt when she saw Mary peer at her reflection. Frowning, then quickly unwrinkling her brow when she realised what she was doing, lest the lines on her forehead become deeper. Plucking at those grey hairs and battling every sign of aging.
Beauty had been so important to Edith when she was young. Now here was proof that beauty fades. And what it leaves behind is not always pleasant. Beauty was deserting Mary and left her a bird without wings, whereas Edith had learned to soar alone.
Sisters
Two things unite you now,
Blood and lines,
Sisters linked through family,
And the passing of time.
You who is so beautiful,
Born so fair of face,
How keenly you will feel,
The loss of Beauty's grace.
Dark good looks have carved you,
A gentle way through life,
A pretty smile has spared you,
A normal person's strife.
But now your skin starts to sag,
Your hair begins to thin,
And though old age has claimed you both,
I soundly say she wins.
All your life excuses have been made,
You've never had to grow,
But she born plain and pitiful,
Has a strength you'll never know.
There, it was written. Now it was time to move on.