One cold night

An opera breasted pigeon does a balancing act,
to feast on the last of the berries
knowing by osmosis his impunity
to poison and next doors cat.

And your hair smells of woodsmoke from blowing the embers
your fingertips brand me, a maori tattoo,
powdery snow drifts by the window
if we were in greenland we could be marooned,
exisiting for months on powdered milk and spam
sleeping monarchs, curled, cocooned.

In this small Essex town, the snow turns to rain,
at midnight, tommorrow slips in...
the fire is cold, the pigeon long gone
the heat dissipates, from where you have lain.