There she goes, crushed and confused, off to the shop to buy more booze. A faded rose with a wan smile on cracked lips; she’ll never meet your eye preferring instead to gaze at her feet. No time to speak - she has to hustle – her man wants a drink and he wants it post haste. His tongue is razor like and barbed with cruelty and anger. He’s a brow beater and a bully. She loves him, she says, because he cares for her – though seldom shows it. His love is the proprietorial kind, as subtle as a punch in the face. She bends to suit his needs, but in a history of futile gestures no kindness goes unpunished.
Migratory flocks bring news as sad as death; another year has passed – lost to the clouds that hang heavy on the horizon. She’s marking time with her heavy feet; her trudging gait and slumped shoulders convey the defeat that hangs like funeral shrouds around her head. The dust of so many lonely years has settled on her brow – the grit gets in her eyes and blinds her with tears that fall as autumn rain. Ashes and sackcloth - tinfoil and cheap wine; the powder put a hex on her and she aged before her time. The needle and the pipe robbed her of her looks – the man who waits impatiently has stolen her dreams.