´óÏó´«Ã½

By kind permission of the Author

Churchill had a siren suit
And so did I, cosy in the shelter,
Hoping the bangs were bombs and not
That friendly fire of our own guns
My mother claimed they were, for then
There would be no excitement on
The morrow, seeking the rumoured craters,
Gazing down awe struck, to where
The ruptured skin of tarmac bared
The tangled pipes and wires of the town’s
Life-blood. (Candles again, tonight!)
There’d be no fascination at the sight
Of wounded houses, facades torn away,
Showing a bedstead, teetering on three legs
Over the missing floor: against a wall
A wardrobe still in place, its door
Creaking slightly in the wind.
Our mother sought to reassure
But — feral children — we required
Drama. Just to think, today
People blame the violence on TV
For stripping children of their innocence.
So, where was ours?

‘This story was submitted to the People’s War site by ´óÏó´«Ã½ Radio Merseyside’s People’s War team on behalf of the author and has been added to the site with his/ her permission. The author fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.’

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