I washed my face with a stick of ice that I snapped off from the tap,
not saying that it's cold, oh no! not anything like that,

they tell me squirrels hide their nuts
I must be one of those,
my breath comes out all misted
can't see beyond my nose.

I might have to wear my thermals,
a balaclava and a scarf,
it ain't 'alf bleeding cold out there,
the lark doesn't seem to care.

The souvenirs
beckon
nostalgia
I wistfully hark
back
to  the blue mountains
the blue moon
the cinematic
landscape
the coastline
the dense
wilderness
and so on
The obsession
hasn't
been
lost
yet

Awake! arise! the hour is late!
Angels are knocking at thy door!
They are in haste and cannot wait,
And once departed come no more.

Awake! arise! the athlete’s arm
Loses its strength by too much rest;
The fallow land, the untilled farm
Produces only weeds at best.