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I cycled to the town of Neath, about a mile from home
It was a sunny Saturday morn, but I felt so forlorn.
We did not get much sleep last night because of German bombs,
But messages still must be done, and show that life goes on.

On my return my mother said to Swansea we must go,
Her youngest sister had borne a child, how they were we did not know.
So down to Neath we walked at pace, where the Swansea buses parked,
The driver said ‘I’ll take you there, but get home before its dark.’

The journey to Swansea was not so bad,
But on arrival the shock we had;
The houses were flattened, the streets in a mess,
At the sight of the children we cried, I confess.

They sat on the pavements all lost and alone,
With what they stood up in all tattered and torn.
All dusty and ragged — no telling which sex,
Their gas masks in boxes, hung round their necks.

Waiting for wardens to take them away
From their homes in the town, and their beautiful bay;
To the safety of the country and families they don’t know,
The little ones frightened, not wanting to go.

At last a bus came to take us to Neath.
This is my memory of war — not peace.

Jean Richards

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