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Stealing Melancholy She had prayed for snow, summoned the red glow of a night sky, masking the moon and stars. Her mind passed effortlessly through the glass door – and the trace of her body tip-toed, tip-toed across the lawn. Memories fell, within a liminal world, caught in the powder-white lace, drawn down in the chill, where the sky had torn. She had longed for the chill, notched it colder by degrees, whilst reading the diaries of Sophia Tolstoy, the stark words stitching her thoughts in place. Stealing melancholy – some might say, this desire for a Siberian winter - the pettiness of life - sunk to the bottom of a frozen garden pond. |