Light is bright outside Peterborough station, high
above a fey half-moon leads my eye up to air:
inside, we face each other – chatter differently
and this cafe bubbles, burns, declares
‘the snow fell as big as footballs’, ice
and hubbub lay a thick carpet, nobody reads
because snowfall centres talking. Minutes pass
and we don’t know if there’ll be a train to Leeds;
‘snow in our drive’, ‘skidding cars’, vroom-vroom.
Outside, sun and moon still burn. How
isolated each face is,
connected by breath, steaming coffee, talk of home;
exiled by flakes, by white stuff and brought into now
by a billion little changes. Longing for our villages.