Homecoming
by Wendy Freebourne
It is the worst winter for a hundred years.
I curl in my tiny chamber, and shudder.
Dark thunder roars in my ears.
My mouth tastes of rusty iron.
For two days the walls have been shaking.
I know I must get out of here,
but the door will not open. It is frozen.
Alone and afraid I hug myself tightly
and shiver.
A crack appears, a tiny opening.
I edge my way painfully, through
the narrow passageway, twisting and squirming,
its slimy walls, unwelcoming.
Another half a day has gone.
I can move no further.
A band is tightening around my head.
I lie still as death, spiralling downwards
into fear.
I surrender. I will die here,
blissfully drift away.
Intrusive hands, cheating me,
snatching me back from oblivion,
pull me free.
Lifted up, exposed in cold fluorescent glare,
all purple indignation, holding my breath,
I am slapped on the rump.
I take in air and scream,
adrenalin seeping through my veins,
making me dizzy, its taste in my mouth,
fury.
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