Home

Icy grey skies are unparalleled delights,

crushing in on a skyline unlike any other,

the dirty light falling like snow into flame-

tinted hair, the cobbled streets a microcosm—

the uneven surface of patchworked

cities made up of every type, or perhaps

of the weather, I feel the shafts of light,

each a different tone and temperature,

flutter erratically on skin so typically pale,

finally,

somewhere I fit in.

If I’ve missed the

train home, there’s another in three minutes,

as I lean myself against the departures board,

wrapping and unwrapping the scarf around

my neck, expecting a different gift each time

but always finding the same skin, dotted

red with the delicate paintbrushes of the

Summer chill, the Autumn wind whistling even

in the middle of July, no friend has ever been

more welcome than he. I want to run again

down weatherbeaten paths in the façace that

my grandmothers call Summer, between trees

that still glisten with Spring frost and flowers only

half-formed, as if awoken prematurely, delicate

yawns on fragile petals yet to be unfrozen, trails

dappled with the light of home and pebbles of the

forgotten.

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