Arm, goose-fleshed in morning reveal
to chill air of the room, tells
her the dawn lights a frost
brought under cover of night
and brightly shining stars, cold
and removed from Earth
by some many millions of miles.
She smiles to know today
will be an unwinding of hours
wrapped in layers of woollen nostalgia
come from a childhood spent
cavorting through fields hoary,
bejeweled with webs of frozen dew,
her cheeks rosy with biting
air and health of country origin.
Not there, not that: unending
grey and manmade solidity,
where glass even resists
any sign of climactic change,
man and woman encased in heat
and stone and brick
and ever controlled environments,
illness circulating through
vents choked with dust and worse.
That tomorrow holds.