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.

Away, far,

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.