I have a friend 
At the end 
Of the world. 
His name is a breath

Of fresh air. 
He is dressed in 
Grey chiffon. At least 
I think it is chiffon. 
It has a 
Peculiar look, like smoke.

It wraps him round 
It blows out of place 
It conceals him 
I have not seen his face.

But I have seen his eyes, they are  
As pretty and bright 
As raindrops on black twigs 
In March, and heard him say:

I am a breath 
Of fresh air for you, a change  
By and by.

Black March I call him  
Because of his eyes 
Being like March raindrops  
On black twigs.

(Such a pretty time when the sky  
Behind black twigs can be seen  S
tretched out in one  
Uninterrupted 
Cambridge blue as cold as snow.)

But this friend 
Whatever new names I give him  
Is an old friend. He says:

Whatever names you give me  
I am 
A breath of fresh air, 
A change for you.