Moscow, January, a thin tapestry coat –
buildings shone in the moonlight –
blues and reds like my frail coat all woven
against the white sky.
It’s the 70s, black-market streets, ice pavements
Even the food didn’t warm, hard boiled eggs
floating in cabbage broth. Every bit of the cold
I was responsible for – failed marriage, carrying a child
with a man I thought could have been a husband
– I tried to phone home.
My money didn’t understand the system and roubles
dropped through. Every night I prayed to a God
I no longer believed in and tried to imagine Mam-Gu,
disbelief in her voice, Fy Dduw, Fy Dduw, bach …
Fy Dduw My God
Bach dear, little one