Lone Star

She had felt cold all day,

her gloved hands chapped,

a cruel frost biting flesh,

clawing through close knit fibres;

she'd failed to notice the slipped stitches

that left her exposed and vulnerable.

She used to keep warm,

put her feet up in front of the fire,

wriggling her toes to feel blood flow,

knowing she was alive.

It was a special time for reminiscing;

for watching memories flicker in the flames,

staying until the very end of the show.

But now she let the fire die down quickly

and the embers soon lost their glow.

Isolation is winter bereft of all other seasons.

One night when she searched the skies

for a lone star to keep her company,

someone had shot down the moon.

 © Christine Magee