As fathers stroll home from work
there is no birdsong and the November light
is all but gone.

Small boys run amok in avenues,
take cover behind privet hedges –
the smell of cordite, heavy in the air.

Over the traffic, the sound of battle:
grenades whistling overhead, the sporadic
rattle of toy guns from doorways.

At tea time, those whose turn it is
break cover, make a zigzagging run for it
shouting – ACHTUNG ACHTUNG.

They go down in a hail of bullets,
competing for the most dramatic death.
The pavement is so littered with Germans

the men must pick a way through
to reach their gates and take their sons
down paths into quiet houses.