* Not Her Choice

Not Her Choice A lady wrapped up against the cold, Has ventured out, some food to find. The snow is quite deep and all is white, She struggles on with all her might, It is not easy growing old. A scarf of wool swathed round her head, Wellington boots to keep feet dry, But not for warmth, this she knows too well, And how they make her ankles swell, Oh, for some leather ones instead. The world can be such a solemn place, When one’s alone and love has gone. Memories come slowly flooding back, And here she is still wearing black, With years of toil etched on her face. She barely has any strength these days, To carry on, but there’s no choice. Each one has become another trial, To just survive that extra mile. The mind it lulls into a haze. A good enough life she has had, some say, But loneliness is not her choice. For when one becomes fragile and weak, Any future can look so bleak, With thoughts of pain and slow decay. Snowflakes have settled upon her clothes, Full length coat is all dusted well. Part of the landscape, she now appears, Long gone are hours filled up with tears, It’s just the chill that reds her nose. © Ernestine Northover