Short story

Dreamer27

Hi everyone, I'm new to this forum. I have recently started writing short stories and poetry after many years of procrastination. I have always had an interest and won a few prizes for same a number of years ago. I would be happy if tou would take a few minutes to read this short piece. All feedback appreciated. Thank you.

The Swan

From her vantage point on the dreary street corner, the old woman observed the children at play in the adjacent street corner. The bitter wind pierced her body, so protectively, she huddled the thread bare coat around her thin frame. She recalled some lines from a W. B Yeats poem, she couldn’t remember which one, her mind was not as it once was, and he had described the older person’s body as ‘a paltry thing’ and as a ‘tattered coat upon a stick’. Was this the way she was perceived? In her psychological mirror, she knew what she saw, she was an observer, a mere object, and she went unnoticed under the dark mantle of age.
Some children were on swings. As the children swooped higher towards the clouds, their movements reflected their energetic natures, the pure and joyful freedom to welcoming and open skies. They were all a glimmer, a kaleidoscope of polka dots, of stripes and colours whirling merrily on the roundabout of life. The roundabout knew no bounds, no limitations, it would surely go on forever, it had a careless sense of self. As the old woman through closer, her creaking joints and grey demeanour drew no admiring glances. It was hard to reconcile this empty shell with the vibrant young dancer she had once been. The energy, the gay abandonment of youth, the confidence that came with just being radiated from the innocent children as they went about their play.
Through the mists of time, the memories of the old woman went a sailing, the fogs lifted, the curtains raised, the old woman was ready to take her bow. She was a graceful swan gliding across the stage, a brilliant flash of white. The children paused in their play, all the whooping and shouting abated as they observed the old woman with her dancing feet twirling around the playground.
Protective parents edged closer. They stood closely by the children to protect them from the ‘ mad lady’. As her umbrella flailed wildly through the air, some muttered angry protests. The lioness must protect her cubs but in so doing will only choose to see what she wants. They left the playground as one, a mass of moving bodies, some with anger, a few looking back with pitying glances. They left her then in the growing darkness to go unobserved. Her energy spent, she sat on the park bench. A little smile played on her lips. She had relived her youth, clawed back a little limelight, she had been noticed. Adults saw an old woman dance crazily, children saw a butterfly spread her wings, the old woman saw her former self. Standing up to amble slowly home she was glad to have been centre stage for a little while.The theatre lights dimmed as she exited stage left.