In winter snow, my mind is a desert,
A burnt illusion in the bitter cold;
My heart becomes less alike the blizzards
Than to the sands with their visions of gold;
Whilst England falls in the hands of the haze,
I see ev’ry single sobering grain
In the desert land of golden pathways,
An escape from worlds of blinding black rain.
Yet as deathly black clouds clear from my head,
I see the loneliness of the desert;
For whilst there’s no threat from the Demon here,
I am embraced by a new, empty fear.
I find that my true home is the blizzard,
Joyfully deaf to where the desert leads.