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.