On moonlit nights when the forest shimmers with winter frost, she comes. The bells of her dress jingle and peal to the tempo of her dance; on some days slow, on others like a country jig. A Queen dancing until a love returns although she be dead these many years.
‘I tell you I heard it on Oprah.’
‘Get out of here that is so no.’
‘It’s true, she was talking to some Washington big shot who said things were so crazy that making it illegal was tomorrow’s way.’
‘Well, no pork barrel big-shot is zapping me with Dietary Laws.‘
I drive rather then walk
The soft tick-tock of the wall clock counters the intermittent click of the typewriter as outside ambulances wail and fade. As I pause for a bite of shortcrust mince-pie, its spices kiss my nose; the rough texture contrasting with the keyboard smooth. And the white paper fills with black words.
It was always the grey November sky with their dank mists, rotting leaves and the caws of birds unseen that makes the memories scratch and scrabble back. I am running and falling; they are screaming, yelling and getting nearer. My heart shakes. A hand looms and my childhood is over.
