´óÏó´«Ã½

With kind permission of the Author

That winter Grandad died was white with snow
And ice for month on month, each minor road
Like glass, even though the trams still ran
They often stuck at frozen points. Few cars
Of Course, the war had seen to that. The horse
And drays for brewery, bin men, milk and coal
Ploughed bravely on, as did we kids to school,
To freeze around the classroom stove, and force
Stiff hands to write, to calculate and parse.
They gave us time off school to visit Gran.
My father drove an army truck. We rode
Illicitly, no other way to go,
Furtively peering past the canvas sheet
At the unbereaved, unknowing, in the street.

‘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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