Under a heap of hood and ice crusted grime
a man alone, old in loneliness and years
with blood numb, gone dumb with cold.
His eyes reveal nothing to the winter mix
of slush, boots, overcoats and hats,
nothing of his desire to evade the cold
nothing of his desire for the warm touch on his back
nothing of his desire for the everlasting escape
nothing of his desire to leave the dreams behind
dreams of days blowing in on winds of green and gold.