There are three little heads all in a row. They ran to bed in troika; from the bathroom, to the toybox, all the time fighting it but to sleep. They spend their summer days indoors in this weather, looking out at the Irish rain. It howls over their little heads as they drift off to sleep. An adventure awaits them and they dream oh such innocent dreams. For those they remember they will retell over weetabix, as they fight for their mother’s attention. One drops off, then the other all the while negociating a trip downstairs, then the third, the littlest who uses his limited vocabulary to talk himself to sleep. At peace. The world to them is at peace. Hush now world, hush and like the young children, be at peace.