You come back,
after my three-month night,
as I knew you would, like light, light.
And though it is summer’s height,
sexy with thunder, rainy heat,
you talk of snow.

                            It is gathering now,
packing thee freight of itself
into cold, faraway clouds,
miles out at sea,
crying upwards into the black sky;

each flake unique, that will fall on us, as we kiss,
or I tell you the poem by Louis MacNeice.
The room was suddenly rich…