London Snow

I went to sleep alone yet woke to find you next to me. The white room was filled with an unnatural brilliant light as you broke the morning news, framed at the bedroom window like an arctic fox. When I arrived more than a decade ago, I learned that nothing stays and may only lay a short while on grey slate tiles.

The albedo canvas of despondent snow made the filth seem closer than ever; the softness made the roads appear as sharp cutlass scratches in the piebald-white city skin. My arc eye looked beyond you where the flakes still drifted as Sunday geared us down from one hundred words per minute. I could find some serenity at seven-storey height, but below, the world writhed with neuralgia.

So, with an outstretched hand I called your tender, pale body back to my bed because salvation was never intended for me. Soon, the choristers will file into the Cathedral through the West door, yet there is no need for us to feel cold or the grit against our shoes because there is enough food at the table and rejoicing in my heart.