A Snow Globe

Make it a snow-globe, shakeable from stasis
into a gelid flurry settling
on alpine starkness, moulded plastic firs
deep-set in dandruff, pert within their sphere.
Wobble detection trips a jingle, one
of those old-time tunes you’re just supposed to know –
The Cuckoo Waltz, for sake of argument.
Shelve in antique emporium, last chance
saloon for gewgaws, books no-one has read
in forty years, unplayable guitars.
The books have titles like “The Mushroom Cult:
an English Priest Reviews the Evidence”;
“New Waves in Knitwear”; “Davro’s On The Prowl”.
The culture of your childhood is washed up,
flotsam and jetsam, on these final shores.
The globe, though, indestructible, a capsule
winking among the ruins, its jingle looping:

coo-coo, duck duck,
dum dum diddy diddy dum

coo-coo, duck duck,
dum dum diddy diddy dum