Winter’s grief –
whose choice it is – this misery
of howling, torched skin
that scoffs within seams
when caught; in raptures
naught trembles without
Irked, white, aching bows
hang forked over withered linen
spread before
severance and spring,
whereupon bad omens
come to surface.


Author: Anita Lubesh

I write poetry/prose/stories/short stories/verses for children/sketch/and have 6 chapters of a novel sitting there like that half eaten trifle in the fridge or bottle of Jack Daniels because something makes you afraid to eat it or drink... right now.. I am a proud Geordie from England's northern hemisphere and the beautiful city of Newcastle upon Tyne. I live with my lovely husband who came all the way from sunny California just for me, and my favourite animal, Bobble, our dog. I am a member of Greenpeace and Friends of the Earth and wish we could all do more, especially today, when such a lot is wrong.

16 thoughts on “Portent”

  1. Love this, Anita! From sunny Mexico I write a thanks for your precision white, physical and emotional, of winter. Thank you. It contains several words I really love, including the title which drew me in.

    Liked by 1 person

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