Oxford, 4 Feb, 1983

I stop and stare in wonder.
7.45am, and the sun, a red orb of blazing fires,
Lifts itself painfully from behind the trees.
The fields are white.
The trees are white.
The cold bites deep into my face,
Salt stinging from sweat and tears.
Suddenly stopping on a bridge
High above the water,
Level with the treetops,
I know this is a moment to be remembered.
A vague mist rises from the water,
The sky crystal clear,
The sun a bloated red balloon
Hanging, pregnant behind the bare trees.