Cold South

The moon is hungry
stalking three am birds
to sing for silver
from the frown of bare bough

I am lost here
deep in a forest of thank you's
a Londoner stranded in the north
wincing at short 'a' thorns
envious of folks' warmth
openly sharing speech

When it's light I'll descend
a few hours huddled in the buffet car
returns me to silence
eye contact in public
shrinking mile over mile

It's a small country
crammed with differences
my home Saturn's negative smile