Cold in the city is grey,
dust-grey that chills,
sticks to the bone and gnaws.
Lightless and hard,
it reaches up from frost-bitten concrete,
and we stilt-walk, frozen-jointed.
Pigeons huddle, song birds hide away,
and the thin-flanked dogs of the homeless
curl up around their hunger.
beyond the walls and grey-dust cold
is green, vibrant, frost-frilled chill
where rivers ripple between ice-crusted banks,
and grass crunches beneath booted feet,
where sky, mirror-bright,
flashes with white wings
and dazzling winter smiles,
and we breathe,
your breath in mine,
clouds of perfect happiness.