”
The original can be found here.
She saw the spirit.
They injected her, they held her down.
She recalled the glossy red shoes of her childhood.
Magic shoes that would carry her wherever she wanted to go.
The Kingdom of Cold Hands
Wintertime: warm breath in frigid air
Dog walking weather
No objections here. Â The animal strains
On his  leash, beneath trees
Bare and stooped, some crooked and crippled
Trapped in a state of advanced decay
Green to grey as the year marches onward
I inhale. Â There are ice crystals in the air.
Tendrils of smoke from every chimney
Becoming a part of the season’s steady breath
Using our kindness for kindling
We make a fire and gather round
Some speculate that the shrieking wind
Is the disapproving voice of the almighty
For winter is charming and disarming
And throughout this season wise witches
Escape from the pages of fairy tales
And wander freely through the forest
Courtesy of Voodoo Pad
And Pixelmator
Time marches on. Relentlessly. Preparing myself for the joys of Christmas shopping. Last minute burst of energy. The world feels unwieldy. I feel large and ungainly. And I am growing too big for the world. I am a big, clumsy rag doll. I do not think I will cope well with the ravages of old age. When my grandmother was my age she began to disintegrate. Her hair fell out, her teeth fell out, her system failed bit by bit like an old used car. And she was always so stoical. I never heard her complain. I never saw her eat although she was bordering on the obese. I am afraid that this is happening to me.. I’m falling apart, bit by bit. How can I halt my own inevitable, relentless, terminal decline. This is what I am facing and I must confess that I am paralysed by terror. I want to climb into my bed, pull the covers up over my head and never resurface.
Christmas and I am fatter than ever. I once when I was very young and immature said that I would rather take my own life than be fat.
And we were all like that at one time in our lives whether we admit it or not.
The temperature plummeted. I, rather foolishly, went walking in the rain. I didn’t notice how wet I was until I came indoors. I brace myself against the weather. Unlike everyone else, for me, winter has its charms.
My mind is offline. One thing I am terrified of is dementia. Early onset. It casts a permanent shadow over my life ever since my new consultant psychiatrist mentioned clear cognitive impairment in her assessment letter.
The river is frozen over now
A winter dream
Suppressing a silent scream
It is so long I think
Since I last saw the sun
Too long.
I hold my breath
Awaiting its return
Longing for something,
Anything to happen
Then I reflect that some
Spend their entire lives
In this way
Waiting for something
Anything to happen
Maybe life, maybe death
And something snaps inside me
And I don my skates
And I surge forward
Shooting across the ice
Liberated of expectation
I want to go into hibernation. I want to return to my childhood home, to lie in my double bed beneath a feather filled duvet, my cat curled up on my chest, staring at the ceiling, listening to radio four. Woman’s Hour, The Moral Maze, The Afternoon Play. This would be the means by which I would measure out my days. Utterly passive, utterly peaceful.
So Sick of Drowning 