lying on my back
naked
like a sundial
waiting for the sun
to step out
from behind a cloud

Snow arrived,
quite suddenly.
The city fell
to silence:
softness flurried,
whiteness spread.
Our footsteps
punched a rhythm:
crisp heel, crisp toe.
Steaming cars slid past
in slush, peeling back
the long black road.
The trees drooped:
tears splattered on
the streets, but
still my heart
lay cold.

I meet you,
but I'm embarrassed
because I've been melting
and now I'm standing
in the middle
of a small puddle.
You're pristine,
crisp corners,
shining like a diamond,
but I know we're all
doomed to melt.

My golden girl, you fill my world
with scraps of paper on the floor.
Each small offcut leads me closer
to the masterwork you truly are.

I recognise my little foibles and I also
see my pain. My love, I dearly wish
that all you find in life is good and
free from blame. When you swing

your curls my love unfurls - briefly,
just before it's swept away. Many,
many bits of paper; only some of them
are kept. All the rest, hope for the best.

At 8pm, he emails and says he misses her.
I know he's drunk.
I wait until the following morning to call him.
He's still drunk.
He talks about Preston Sturges.
There's a turbulence, underneath, he says.
Sometimes, a little bit comes to the surface; enough to try and guess at what's going on.
Not with Dickens, he says.
With Dickens, everything is behaviour.
I'm regretting calling.
He talks about taking responsibility and how some survivors came out of Auschwitz stronger and some blamed it forever.
I lay the phone on my lap and look out the window.
There's a white mist in the distance, covering the city.
Only the tops of the tallest buildings are visible.
But I can still see the skyline.

It looks like I'm marooned here.

I've checked the fuel; it's not good.

There's simply not enough for the journey home.

Not enough inspiration, nor enthusiasm.

Sensuality night work, but there's little to be found.

If the landscape wasn't so bleak and inhospitable, I might be able to mix some kind of cocktail. A Martini. Or a Margarita, perhaps.

Wearily, I open the door to the engine room. A familiar white light shines over the chilled glass shelves. I tell myself it's going to be okay.

Take me to a place both green and blue,
close to where the milling tourists stay.
I want to curse the kissed white marks,
of sea salt on my cheap brown shoes.

I long to wither underneath the warmth,
as scented gardens chirrup along.
The dusty dogs will keep their idle guard,
on winding roads through olive groves.

Feed me plaited bread that's baked
by hands grown wrinkled from the sun.
Buy tomatoes, aubergine and thyme,
from the market's wooden trestle tables.

Smash a wave upon the jagged rocks,
hear the crackle as the wave recedes.
Annouce the glowing summer's carnival;
a paean sung for all the working bees.