The seeds explode overnight,
above the hut we live in.
For over seven years I have been watching
old bullet holes – glowing deep eyes
in the coal fire.
With a sigh, the war spreads long silent ashes.
At bedtime, curled up under Hiroshima blankets,
back to back, we pray for apples.
Now, in April, diggers arrive at dawn.
The walls crumble in the middle of a
newly-built council estate.