The years advance and she backtracks, shrinking and shrivelling,
arthritic hips, knee-joints and feet, reducing her movements to the crunching
of a shovel, scraping upon gritted concrete.
She thinks that she is insignificant now, passing through middle age to a lesser existence,
to an existence of otherness.
Others, though, others see her in all of her otherness.
Not only do they see her, they fear her.
They see and fear the enormous shadow;
a shadow cast up by her diminishing frame;
a shadow angry, threatening and intimidating;
a shadow flaunting its all-knowingness at them –
What does she know?
What does she know that they don’t?
What has she seen?
What tricks does she have?
Does she have the power to unearth them?
Scared and fearful, they feign mock laughter.
Laughing still, they lash out and dig
seeking to undermine her, to uproot her, to boot away her shadow.
Well, it was either her or me, they would say to themselves, if they even ever thought
about what they had done at all, if they even
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, March 2019