I will go to Moscow in my head,
Watch the onion domes peel off their light,
Walk the Square where, at one side,
Imprecise as a slip of ink on paper
Someone will wave; I will know the sounds
Of the words meshing around me,
A gabble of ordinary people making a world:
I will wear a fur hat and await, as if reading
The end of a story by Lermentov,
The challenge, the offer of choice of weapons
While small snow flicks a change of season.
There are boot-prints encrypted in the frozen grass,
And in my head when I nod two unmoving figures
    Drown in a welter of iced water.

Fred Johnston’s most recent collection is Rogue States (Salmon Poetry). He lives in Galway, Ireland.