It is the spring that comes, day by day seeping round the curtains that the winter left. It is the morning caught in cigarettes and smoke that wanders on the bedroom wall, dissolving. And lastly it is in the long six thousand miles: you are an ocean and a continent away. The early sun glows behind the dawn and stirs the birds to singing. I can but will not, greet the spring before you come and the dawn light leaks in onto the rumpled bed, too many pillows and a crushed stub smouldering.