The winter is coming
and there’s nothing I can do about it.
The winds will blow;
the leaves age
The sun cower in the sky
as clouds cover the blue.
The flowers turn into fruit and then fall…
and the frost claimed them.
Ice and wind and shadows…
candles and streetlights and wintercoats
But no you.
Winter will come and the grass will fade,
my dresses retreat to my wardrobe
The heaters on again, snow and ice again.
But no you.
It’s like the tectonic plates that make up the landscape of my life are shifting; a flood of constant swaying and upheaval, yet somehow intensified in this time.
The elements that constitute the familiar; welcoming landmarks that give me a sense of North, an understanding of where I am and the security these give, are being uprooted and melted into molten variability.
The Scenic Rim’s cradle that has held me and rocked me to sleep is melting into the background, reduced to a fond memory.
The safe house of glass and grass disappeared long ago- or maybe was always fragile.
The house of colour and secret gardens and sunshine and shadows left years ago; moved out.
Now I am grown up- and the nests of old are fraying as each season comes and goes and the wind pulls at its strings.
Aren’t we all just trying to make sense of our lives? Those moments when you find yourself sitting on the floor, staring blankly into the carpet.
I miss your face, our once endless conversations; but there’s no longer ache to it like there was. There’s some vague feeling akin to fond memory, like looking at an old photograph and smiling at what has changed. Like those pathways in your house you can do without the lights being on from pure daily repetition; the space of floor between the window and the bed, the kitchen and the door, a feeling likened to how your feet remember the way by sheer touch of the surface against your soles. Old paths. And yet at the fringes there exists a taint of something sombre; like the smoke left over from the fleeting moments of a candle being extinguished. Moments that seem to waft on into the present. It cannot not exist here. It’s now threads woven into the fibres of my consciousness.
Why are we so reluctant to remove all that is not bursting into life? Why do we hold on to the shrivelled yellow leaves of life…of ourselves? Do you hold on? I hold on. Let’s let go. God grant us grace to let life shuffle out of our being all that is less than; all that we can be. All that holds us back from who we ARE.