It’s cold. Not the sharp biting cold of an east wind,
Nor the tingling exhilarating cold of winters first snow.
This is the slow steady cold of January clinging to your flesh,
Mixing with your blood. Soaking into your soul.
This cold cannot be escaped; it’s within you now.
It drifts through your mind when you sleep and when you wake.
Too late now for the fire, a warm drink, soft blanket.
This is the cold of disappointments of loneliness.
The cold wraps around you, caressing as once the sun did.
Lost friends, forgotten hopes chill your dreams now.
The warmth of happiness, confidence, strength - all gone.
No spring will come, for the cold you feel is death.
BIO: Patsy Collins writes short stories for magazines including,
Woman's Weekly, Fiction Feast, Ireland's Own, My Weekly and That's
Life. To read more about her and her writing, please visit patsy-collins.blogspot.com