Cancelled flights, frozen bikes.

Coffee-shops, gluhwein stops.

Women trapped in red-lit boxes.


Rather than descend to the pit of the Picadilly Line

at Russell Square I’d rather walk to the Tate Modern.

Rather than be welded to other bodies in a train

I’d rather be soaked to the skin on my way to Brick Lane.


Vino tinto, bocadillos,

in a cafe near the Prado:

everything, one euro.

Look, I’ll show you.


We chose Mallorca.

Hot sun, white sand, warm blue water.

Together, slow bronzing, mother and daughter.


In Ted Hughes’ house, poets write

around a long table. Snow light, candle light.

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