´óÏó´«Ã½

By kind permission of the Author

Visiting evacuees, we would go
By train, reserving a compartment to
Ourselves by spreading bags on seats, although
In retrospect, I think what might deter
Potential travellers would be
The noise we made, and our united glare
Flattened against the smoke stained glass to dare
Them, at each nameless stop, to board. Arriving we
Would burst upon the sleepy village, loud
In holiday mood, but almost as quickly, cowed.
The strangeness of it all! Our cousins, known
To us since birth, and townee bred, had grown
Into country kids, familiar with dogs
And cows and horses, local speech and clogs:
An outside lav, a garden’s length away,
Where earwigs, and bugs and spiders lay
In wait: and unfamiliar local food
And cow pats in the fields, in which I stood,
To great hilarity, mistaking it
For stone and nettle stings and cuckoo spit.
We pined for sirens, gas masks, chip-shops, trams
And painted kerbs in darkened streets, and even bombs.

‘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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