Hitler Youth on Bicycles, 1937

They came over betsom’s hill like giant ants
who, having raided and divvied up a freshly
dropped loaf, scuttle away, each one
shouldering a single golden crumb.

Mum warned me of the apocalypse
and I'd thought it was here, but the ants
came nearer and grew pairs of wheels.
I knew better. And then the noise:

like a million shaking matchboxes,
the chatter from their taut necks
getting shoutier—it was like the final
of the school tiddlywinks tournament.

They passed. I carried on up the hill
looking for beetles; I found a bike,
broken spokes, and a boy. Something
about his blue eyes seemed to twinkle.