Bitter Cold Tea
A cottage upon a storm battered bluff.
A cellar door shunned for decades past, hinges rusted and fused.
Powder blue paint, cracked, mosaic.
A frail woman with skin as flaked and fractured.
Knarled fingers raise a cup to her rouged lips. She sips.
Leaves staccato against the window, conducted by a biting November wind.
A fitful glance, another sip.
A howl borne on the tempest's back. The cellar door silent and bolted.
A lull. The ticking clock.
Behind the cellar door, creaking.
Forlorn sobs seeking the woman's stony heart.
A birth hidden in youth, secret.
Mum's the word.
About the Author
David lives on the edge of Epping Forest having been raised on a council estate in South London. Recently resigned from a stressful job after twenty years he finds that his mind is decluttering and is now able to concentrate on hobbies and interests. He hopes, despite a crippling fear of grammar and punctuation, that writing will become one of them.