I see Orion’s Belt when she points it out to me,
The three dots that herald the archer’s waist
Barely visible in the orange glow of the street
Lamp in Winter – I trace their path to a twinkling
Dot in the sky, and I imagine that it’s Mars
Nearby, blinking at me – the impatient
God of War demanding that our tributes
Of steel come to clean blood and rust from his
Armour, only to remember that the Gods
In our skies never twinkle – nearby as they are.
Perhaps it’s Siris, the ever North Star, pointing
Southwards in the topsy turvey vertigo of our
Nowadays lives, where I, the daydreamer gazing far
Upwards into the sky, have never seen the stars.