There’s a whisper in her head.
In the zipper of her anorak, the wind
yanking at her hood, cold ears ringing.
It’s there, stinging an acid tic in her eye.
It’s following her in the dark afternoon.
The insinuating creak of hanging trees.
Fast tyres free on wet tarmac, overtaking.
Headlights, never dipped, blinding.
It’s the skinny dog, stray or lost, tripping
round the park bins. It’s the cramping
in her calves and the holes in her socks.
Damp feet in shoes she now knows leak.
There’s this whisper in her head.
Every day on her sleepwalk back home.
Every day when she’s losing, scared to go.
And the whisper tempts her: “Don’t.”