大象传媒

We lived in other people's houses, Mum and I;
Some untidy, others neat unto obsession;
Some smelled of drains and damp; some smelled of carrot pie.
Most felt cold, for coal was miniscule of ration.

Mrs P had rules, our ration books collected.
She gave us potatoes and vegetable stew.
At night to air-raid shelter, warm beds neglected,
Where beetles, musty smells, hard bunks and comforts few.

At dawn the "All Clear" sounded' candles waxy smell.
"Where's the cat? Will the house still be there?" we wondered,
Or would it all be rubble, a tangled heap, a hell?
(The sweet shop across the road, a bomb had plundered.

The baby's cot suspended from the bedroom floor.
The owner's private lives exposed to public gaze.
Hanging from its hinge was a crazy, drunken door.
And still, o'er all hung a dusty desolate haze.)

Today, our school playground was a pile of rubble,
The gates were locked, with notice, I, too young to read.
No school, no jubilation, no mum to cuddle.
She worked on munitions; I alone. None took heed.

A searing pain, one day, bore into my ear and head.
To hospital; a cot with bars my prison made.
The nurses sang their wartime songs. My heart was lead.
At night they ran with cots on wheels. "Quick!" Matron bade.

The cots went down in lifts into the depths of the earth.
"The caves beneath are safe from bombs" My nurse offered.
To sooth my anxious cries, but stroking there was dearth.
Even Mum could but steal a touch; the fingers proffered.

Children can recover. We play on play-ground ice.
The vigorous run up, then, glide, waving arms wide.
Crisp, cold air, rushing through my hair, burns eye and face.
A hole in sole of shoe, no clothing coupons!"- - - "Hide!"
Pam Kearsley March 2003

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