as we age; our place in our lifecycle is evident in the condition of our flesh--we are frail, withering creatures, and there's nothing like turning into a prune as we soak in the bath to remind us of this.
Our poet makes us conscious of her bones resting on the cold porcelain of the bath, which does not readily hold heat, as she lies staring at the ceiling.
from Frieda Hughes: The Times: Bathtime blues
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