The world is frozen, and the novelty of snow has not yet worn off,
that strange, three dimensional crunch as the boy takes each step onto its surface.
Nor the way it refuses to melt in his ungloved hand
making him wonder if his skin is frozen and he doesn’t realise it.
The sun is not yet risen, the world immersed in gunmetal gray,
passing villages flanked by skeletal windbreaks, pines drenched in snow flurries.
Fields a shapeless void of white -it could stretch on forever to the low deep hills,
the autobahn stretching to the ancient city ahead – his new home (behind).
It’s all so fascinating that the boy rarely speaks to tell his father how wondrous it all is,
until many years later, but for now views this homeland with silent wonderment.
The Sun emerges and a mountain explodes into life captured by the molten honey light
that first paints it, like a nuclear bomb has detonated in his mind.