Cold Respite

She stoops wind chilled against the blast,
Her native home remembered.
Grey leaden skies their shadows cast,
and dim her veld dull embered.

Yet ice snaps bring not gun-shot's dread,
Nor English damp their staining,
She sleeps sound safe in foreign bed,
South Africa her waning.

(Some late night thoughts about a South African colleague experiencing her first British winter).