A re-write of "The Spy Who Came In From The Cold"

FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT


You entered my room - just the sound of your distant Voice.

The chill of winter fell from your clothes as they closed about me;
petals of ice dropped from your heavy boots.

Your speech patterns and rhythms were slow
and disconnected, eschewing the deep thoughts
of one journeying through long years in space;
someone fallen into a huge crevasse,
or lost on some lonely mountain top.

* * * * *

Papier-mache man, fragments of endless books and knowledge
encase you in monotone syllables.

How I long to decorate you with my garden colours:

It's your heart that would be painted first,
from which all other shades could bleed.
There might yet be a melting thaw
and a spring tide gushing through frozen veins.

* * * * *

In the corner of a room closed to all but dark and dustcovers,
long undisturbed and silent,
a butterfly awakes and beats
freshly-opened wings against frosted window panes.

Life is returning.
It's a brand new day.