What will we wake up to, tomorrow?
Can the sun bear to shine on a new, fresh sorrow?
Where will be hurting?
Who will be crying?
What breed of hate will make sense of the dying?
Keeping Cool
“Mum!” they shriek
Wriggling like worms,
“We can’t stand still for sun cream,
We promise we won’t burn.
But can we play out in our pants?
That will keep us cool.
We know, no cream, no playing out,
But it’s too hot for that rule!”