Atholl House is at unrest.
White lilac trees hold
fragile snow in their grasp.
A wind howls for the vulnerable.
A sprinkle of confectioner’s sugar from the
stars above softens the world’s sharp edges
and hides it behind white nothingness.
The light turns a sickly green,
a blizzard is imminent.
I hug myself for extra warmth.
Dressed in threads and patches and
woollen stockings I point my feet
towards home and set off.
I do not want to be out in the blizzard but
I would rather be away from Atholl House,
my future in my own hands.