Your impish, oily, freckled faces were bright that night on Milton Road. Where you made the cats claw doors in a careless wailing stupor, Of fear. Yes, the men in camper vans rode in like the silvery knights, just like the silver-fish that eat the floor- the ones that chew and reproduce, The parasites. The one's where society has no qualms, decisions, answers; and they sit in their bleak evenings: a little turret, waiting for anything, To break down barriers. Like the doors, Large holes in walls are not enough. Not large enough to house a bird, with sticks and bones instead of tongues, but, in their nests their children pinned, Down are my legs and long arms kept. Where road and rocks they turned to flint, as the morning siren soared. But by my sides, my arms stood still. Nor did the Neighbours wail.