December in Puri

My advent calendar of malarone pills
lets me now it's Christmas day.
The mosquito bites on my back spell
twenty-four degrees: winter.
Only at dusk, mopeds careening at sixty,
do we encounter some real weather:
a thwack of nostalgia as a dragon-fly,
wings as sharp as freezing rain,
slaps me in the eyebrow,
mosquitoes hail.
I know how a windscreen feels.

We build a fire on the beach
in memory of being cold,
hold our palms to the heat
until the embers are snow.
It's four am. What's the point of boxing day?
The TV sea is crashing static.