大象传媒

Deep underground in Enfield Chase
Historic hunting ground of QE1
Another use was found for it
In nineteen thirty nine.

Deep underground in stifling bunks
With little air or space
Scratching, scraping, What was that
Rats? That was our greatest fear.

Brothers! Mischievious in every generation
It was his fingers all the time
Fuelling our claustrophobic fear
Of rats and spiders. Doodlebugs we didnt mind.

My mother was lucky
My father was needed
To stay in this country
To serve the Coal Board

But what a hard time
To bring up four babies
With bombs dropping round.
To the country we fled.

To Piggotts Hill in Budkinhgamshire
Where artists and designers
Of plaques and church windows
Were gathered together, disapproving of war.

The Nuttgens and Fosters
And Eric Gill too
We played with their children
In orchards and farmyards.

And now ever after
The smell of a farmyard
Brings memories flooding
Of that glorious summer in Buckinghamshire

I distinctly remember
My father returning
For my sixth birthday
And bringing me presents

A small bag of sweets
(They were rationed of course)
And a marvellous book
Called Orlando the Marmalade Cat.

Orpheus in the Underworld
Had to cross the River Styx
And just as hard it seemed to me
At the tender age of six

To cross the farmyard every morn
Between hunger and fear waw I torn
Winged monsters we had to brave
Cackling and snapping with their beaks

Unarmed and unprotected
We should have taken sticks
Geese look very big indedd
When you are only six.

This morning ritual had to be
More scary than the bombs
But courage was the order of the day
Bombs or monsters - either way.

It was all part of the adventure
When destiny had sent you
To the safety of Piggots Hill
In some ways a bitter pill.

We were moved from pillar to post
To the Nuttgens' house and Mrs Ghost
My brother and I, aged seven and six
Alone, afraid, a bit lost.

I suppose an arrangement
Was made for our sleeping
In a room in a house
Where a lady sat nightly

With easel and paints
Brush poised in her hand
Like a ghost, never speaking
Not even hello or goodnight.

A funny thing happened one night
I'll always remember the sight
Of my brother's pyjamas descending
To his ankles in front of the ghost.

We had run past her easel
Nature's call for to answer
Like a pillar of salt, engrossed in her work
Not a smile, not a word, not a glance.

Were they cowards or were they wise
To turn their backs on the war
Cut off from reality
Living very comfortably.

It doesn't seem right to use one's faith
As an excuse for cowardice
Thinking their art more important
Than defending these shores.

When so many volunteered
Despite the horrors they feared
Their art was part of it,
Written while in the thick of it

How many poets and how many artists
Were silenced and stilled.
While in Piggots Hill their days were filled
With birdsong and beauty and sun

With colour and canvas
And peace and quiet and fun
Their faith gave protection
From air-raid and gun

They took the easy way out
Shut away like monks who pray
Thinking prayer would stop the fray?
Saving thier skins and their art.

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