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
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