Quadrille: Cold grips

Photo©Rob Petershack


Cold grips

and slips

between the planes of being,

creeping, seeping unseeing.

Dearth and famine raise winter’s

hand, breaking splinters

of blood and skin,


to fire burning,

water turning

from green to blue,

and at the very last,

holding fast,

turning bone

to stone.


Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

13 thoughts on “Quadrille: Cold grips”

      1. I must admit I can’t bear to read the twitter feed when the Big Orange is mentioned. The pro lobby is too scary. Despots like Pol Pot you can imagine having these kind of views and not seeing anything wrong in spewing their evil, but these are ordinary people!

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