In our heads the poles melt & New York’s an ice museum. Our talk shifts over rising tides & the reflective Book of Revelation. But outside beyond Alphington sunset takes hours & the cats moon. We let evening evenly take its course & settle into our stodge of does & don’ts. Writing takes hold, with paradisal choice of verbs & hurried ampersands. Or reading arrives at the frontier of Bohemia & over into Emperor Rudolf’s roseate universe. Or washing-up inspires drying epigrams of day & bubble reveries. Or tiredness reports in & transports us from February for nine secure hours.