Child-ghosts that mark the frigid dawn,
They wait, breath-banded, by white lawns,

And stamp like first-watch soldiers sent
To put out dreams like cigarettes.

They haunt in ones or threes, limbs tight
As tied-up Christmas trees. Grey light

Moves through the distant glassy hills.
The yellow bus exhales and fills

Its greenery of broken seats,
And leaves behind the empty street.

-published in Pivot, Number 45, 1997