The Whisper
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.”
So sad , did she ever make it home, I wonder. or did she fall along the way……….
Though not reaching home might have been a blessing, if you consider the last line…
Yes poor little soul what hope is there for her.
Hmmm. One has to wonder if the whisper means well….
Hey Seb. Yes, I think you have a point there… The voices in the head… could go either way…
There is something implicitly sinister about hearing voices in the head ~ yet, going by your last line, this could be a protective whisper ~ intriguing as ever Ms M.
Thanks Polly – I was thinking of the wind calling someone’s name and this is what happened from there…
Well done. Unfortunately, I believe I have walked ever so far in those same leaking shoes! You describe the feeling utterly!
Thanks Lea. Yes, those shoes make for an uncomfortable journey, wherever the destination…
A definite cold sinister touch to this one Holly, yet again, a picture painted in wirds so well!
The image for me, was of soneone “lost”, in a horrible place wherever she was, and physically that place was horrible enough, and the dread of going “home”, he possibility of that being worse
A gem as ever
Christine.
Thanks Christine. There’s something about long journeys that build the anticipation, for good or ill, of whatever is waiting at the end… especially on a dark wintery night.