Frost clings to the chimney pots,
Spangling a billion tiny suns,
Across the rooftops and under the eaves,
Melted by dreams,
Billowing from within.
Fearful of cracking,
These fragile walls
The birds sing into the white cotton,
Of this blue jar.

Still, the child runs,
From tanks thundering,
And Kalashnikovs singing,
Hides in the doorway,
And waits for the monsters to pass.
His dusty head rattles with milk teeth,
And his wet eyes sting,
As the walls crumble,
Like dreamcake.

The first hum of the long-commuters,
Drifts through the air,
The birds sing louder,
The micro-babble of gadgetry,
Rises with its owners,
Whose sleeping hands start kettles whistling,
And toasters glowing,
While others still dream.