Small hail rattles petulantly
against leaded attic windows.
Below, in untended gardens,
a child's broken swing creaks
where unkempt brambles
scratch at cold night winds.

In the abandoned nursery,
where faded draft-blown drapes
brush toy-strewn floorboards,
a dappled, paint-blistered rocking-horse
sways faintly on a fleeting, moonlit stage.

Where innocence long since died,
a legless bear leers at a blind rag doll.
A jammed spinning-top lies rusting
upon a hopelessly scattered jigsaw.
A ***** Harlequin slumps in depression,
his wanton Columbine gone forever.

From the torn, once gaudy, pages
of a faded, open book,
mocking rhymes echo
insanely down the years.

Crockery elopes with cutlery,
a suicidal mouse runs out of time,
Humpty mimics Lucifer . . .
and a little boy laughs to see such fun
as Old King Cole
steals your adult soul.