Winter

Couched on crimson cushions,
   pink bleeds gold

and red spills into one's heart.
   Broad leather keeps time,

calibrating different hours
   in different zones

unaware of the grammar
   that makes sense.

Only random woofs and snores
   of two distant dogs

on a very cold night
   clears fog that is unresolved.
New plants wait for new heat —
   to grow, to mature.

An old cane recliner contains
   poetry for peace — woven

text keeping comfort in place.
   But it is the impatience of want

that keeps equations unsolved.
   Heavy, translucent, vaporous,

split red by mother tongues —
   winter's breath is pink.

from The Literary Review, Red: An Anthology of Black British Poetry (Peepal Tree), and forthcoming in Blue Nude: New Selected Poems & Translations 1980-2010.