Church Bells in Pripyat

I slept on the floor last night, and my bad back was better, and I slept, and do not remember dreaming.

A few flutters of snow as I walk to work, butterfly wings made of razors. Less than that, a rumour nothing more, for when I had turned they had gone, and the sky was the clear-white of void.
The wind remains, lasting as long as the church bells that ring over Pripyat, except in Brighton. This day seems to have lasted more than a quarter of a century. Servicing radiation, serving these reminders of bone, and I was fourteen - the summer of 1986 - and Chernobyl was some watchword whose observations I can't remember. At least they can't aim their missiles at us now. Oh yes, I remember those protect and survive leaflets, stuffed through evening doors in London suburbia. Waiting for the siren, waiting for those church chimes.
That wind bought all that back today, and someone might remember this wind in another quarter of a century, and I'll be just entering old age, and I might remember my dreams again.

Until then there's this February wind that makes the day seem so long.