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.