The knife wind seizes fingers that curl against the cold,
Each cutting eddy lingers round bones so stiff and old.
If I could spread a golden sail to fly before the storm,
My path would lead me all the way to where the air is warm.

Circumstance that rules most men must apply to me,
I must remain south of the sun but still, my thoughts will flee
North to Capricornia, to coral reefs and sea,
Where I can feel the South-east trades blowing warm and free.

I long to be where I can see no shadow from the sun,
To see it rise from tropic seas like fire on the run
To set behind the sugar cane, the crimson sky so brief,
To place my hands on steel that warms to give them some relief.

North is where I turn my head to face the fleeing sun,
North! One day our path will lead, a new life just begun,
Northward to the tropics! I long to feel the heat,
I long to feel warm water wash the hot sand from my feet.

David Henry.