I am reciting a poem to a blue-eyed Adonis
as we walk briskly through a busy London road
The snow on his brown hair flecked with gold
is stardust in the light of the street lamps.
‘That was beautiful,’ he says when I finish.
The stars above cannot be seen for the clouds
and yet they are there, each one
of them twinkling like the snowflakes
that surround us, so bright
the darkness of a winter evening seems daylight
They remain suspended in the air
around me for hours afterwards
I soak in their warmth, the crystals of light
The raw material of art and literature.
12 January 2017