PHOTO PROMPT © Victor and Sarah Potter
Winter was hard.
The streets were slick and glassy, icicles sang from every tree – a high, unearthly tune – and even the harbour was clogged, jagged plates of ice knocking, sliding one over the other, only for their cold geometry to refreeze each night as the sun vanished.
We were standing by a brazier when we saw the strangest thing. Webs, the spokes and lines frilled white and at the centre of each, the crystal bauble of a spider, waiting for a last meal that never came.
‘A sad sight,’ said Barney, hands purpled and blotchy.
He’s a good man.