Dreaming of zeppelins

for Barbara Giles, when aged six

If it’s a cold war, the telegraph wires
Sing the air with a dull whir.

Fearing the thing that creeps, or
Numbers mounting without control,

No wonder our sleep’s uneasy.
Young as we are, we know

A death on the wind is coming
And what our dreams shall reap, we’ve sown.

Originally published in Fine Line, 1988