´óÏó´«Ã½

By kind permission of the Author

They came in a cardboard box, almost a cube,
The long string handle hung around your neck,
The sharp-edged corners bouncing on your hip.
You had to haul the heavy things around
Wherever you went, though now, I don’t recall
We ever had them with us playing out.
To think, at school, or church, or cinema,
You might be gassed, but not in your own street,
Playing with friends! Did our mothers hover,
Anxious, behind closed doors, those boxes at
The ready, waiting the siren’s warning wail?
Not!
Slowly their importance lost its hold.
I don’t remember where they went, or when.
Their main effect had been to make it clear
The rich had proper cases made for theirs,
But ours remained a thing of string and card.
They all smelt terrible, much worse than gas.
The Mickey Mouse ones for the little kids
Looked silly, unless you had to wear the thing.
Then, all were equal, frightening, claustrophobic,
Whatever your age or sex or social status.

‘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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