大象传媒

"The Passing Year, 1944".

In early nineteen forty-four,
Sleeping on the upstairs floor,
By night, as sirens wail, we leap,
From warm beds and sound peaceful sleep,
When London's barrage roaring near,
With shrapnel scattering we hear,
Our sleeping children gently shake,
And lead them, only half awake
To safer shelter down the stairs,
The drone of bombers, dropping flares,
Above our homes, with naked light,
Pinpoint us target for the night.

With summer only just begun,
To Southern England comes VI,
And doodle-dodging night and day,
Brings beds, and us, downstairs to stay.
We shiver, as we lie in bed,
To vile vibrating overhead,
Above, this fiend of jet-populsion,
Breathes over us its last convulsion,
Onrushing, till it hits the ground
With vivid flash and shattering sound.

In winter days of wind and rain,
Catching the early bus or train,
The children go to school each day,
May they be safe while they're away,
When from the skies, without a warning,
At any time of night or morning,
Through stratosphere, outstripping sound,
The rocket rushes to the ground,
With double-crack and giant roar.
- All this in nineteen forty-four,
Give thanks may we who yet survive
To welcome nineteen forty five.

This poem was written by Mrs. Trimble and was sent to a friend and neighbour who placed it in her photo album that was passed on to a relative. Both parties died many years ago and no copyright was claimed for this or other poems in the possesion of the present holder.

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