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A poem for Black Saturday

7 – 9 – 1940

The Seventh of September
Was a warm and humid day,
The air so still and peaceful,
The war seemed far away.
But this was an illusion,
For on that fateful afternoon,
As the East End basked in sunshine,
The peace would be ending soon.

The wailing of the siren
Heralding the coming raid,
Distant gunfire coming nearer
It was time to be afraid.
‘Come on get down the shelter!’
I heard my father cry,
As a droning air armada
Approached across the sky.

Huddled in the Anderson shelter
We shielded our hearts in fear,
As bombs rained down around us
It seemed our end was near.
Shrapnel from the bursting shells
Fell crashing on the tiles.
The ground shook with explosions
That could be felt for miles.

After three long hours of terror,
We heard the all-clear sound.
And shakily we climbed out
From our dug-out in the ground.
All around the sky glowed red,
Dense smoke lay in the air,
Acrid fumes from nearby fires,
Smashed windows everywhere.

We prepared sandwiches and flasks of tea,
Blankets and pillows as well,
For we knew the bombers would come back
As soon as darkness fell.
And sure enough by 8 pm
We heard the siren sound,
And quickly we retreated
To our dug-out in the ground.

All night long the raid went on,
It lasted till the dawn;
So many died that day and night,
So many deaths to mourn.
But this was only just the start
The real war had begun,
And raids like this would carry on
Through nineteen forty-one.

Bombs hit the docks and factories
Along the Thameside shore,
Churches Schools and hospitals,
And the dwellings of the poor.
From Silvertown to Stratford,
And from Mile End to Millwall,
The destruction was extensive,
And the East End bore it all.

Few of the heroes who served us well
Are still around today
The wardens, rescue teams and firemen
Who kept the flames at bay.
Many died in action,
As official lists relate,
Their names enshrined forever
On a Canning Town estate.

Mass graves and crumbling tombstones
Tell their story of the war,
When mighty air armadas
Smashed the dwellings of the poor.
Though more than sixty years have passed
I always will remember
That dreadful day it all began
The seventh of September.

Len Smith 2004.

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