Orange Blue Heat and White Cold – Eduard Dantes

The graves were covered
In the white powder
Of an early February morning.

The chimney of the little stone house
At the edge of the land;
Next to the church
By the gate,
Issued plumes of white smoke
Disrupting still fog.

The chills and shivers
Running through my body
Were not for
The apparitions of ghosts
Or thoughts of death.

Out of the little stone house
A woman, clad in black
Head bowed down,
Appeared carrying a tiny vase.

The smoke from the chimney
Had slowly died away.

The fire was out
And had turned to carbon and ash
What once was flesh.

Outside, it was cold
And silence was broken
Only by slow shuffling and crunching sounds.

Somewhere, far away
Walt Disney’s head rested in a freezer
Awaiting new life.

Sat there, watching the woman
And her black garbed entourage
Criss crossing their way
Through moss, ice and snow covered headstones,
I thought of the end of the world.

It’s said to have known desire
Is to call upon fire
And as for everlasting hatred
Ice would be required;
One obliterating all in its path
The other preserving in cracks,
Like mummies embalmed forever,
The evidence of destruction.

All traces of black had disappeared.

I placed my roses,
Lit a cigarette with a match,
Letting it burn to my freezing fingers,
And left without having decided
Whether the world should end in
Fire or ice.


his name rhymes with ‘mince’. He’s rarely without a notebook and can usually be found next to the closest bottle of red wine. Previously a writer for The Roehampton Lane Journal.

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