Jenny Bornholdt


the cold is startling, 

One tree broadcasts red
among its neighbours – 
not lovely, exactly, just
not green. A gecko
in the washing, crumpled
like a glimpse of slate sky
through a cloud
of sheets – perfect
piece of winter. 
Despite all night
in the machine, not dead,
just shocked and clean.

And us, our limbs in bed
like those of startled
horses – skittish, mad
for warmth.

And even though
there’s no snow
this far north,
I like to think of Rabelais
who wrote in his ‘Pantagruel’
of battle sounds trapped
in the ice.
When spring came around
and thaw set in
they once again
were heard.

what would we

Author’s Note


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