V.E Day
I was born in Brighton just
two weeks before war was declared. My Dad was called up for service and my Mum
wasted no time, packing just one suitcase and catching the train to my dad’s
relations in Leeds, where she hoped the three of us would be safe.
75 years ago was V. E. Day. Our Mother had not long returned
to Worthing to live on the South coast once
again. My brother and I had Yorkshire accents
when she brought us home again after staying with relatives in the north for
the duration of the war, or pretty near.
Wartime Monday
She stood on the cold scullery
floor,
Old apron pulled on over her head
And tied firmly in a bow at her
waist.
Turning the wash in the tin tub
more.
A glazed look spoke words not
said
Lifting her strong tea with
sugary taste.
.
Mangle wheel held, as she faced
the door.
Wash rinsed, turns to what her thoughts
bled,
Later the kids need to be fed in
haste.
Empty stomachs rumble; a husband
at war.
A hard life and then you are
dead.
Listen by radio of battles and
the displaced.
News that caused a drop of the
jaw.
Working hard to buy some bread.
Headlines of heroism or the
disgraced.
Will he come back? Will she hear
him snore?
Laying together under the old
bedspread,
Strangers hands, fingers
interlaced.
Iron Shelter
No going to sleep in a comfy bed
No curtains with soft pink flowers.
That was my old room it has to be said
Not used in those black-out hours.
My slumber fitful, in more like a cell
An iron sheet cage roof and base,
Rough mesh sides link to thick bars well
I clutch my pillow edged with lace.
‘Bombs is droppin’, Mother’ Mr Taylor calls.
His deaf wife asks, ‘What d’ye say there’?
‘Bombs is droppin’ and shakin’ the walls
Come down to the shelter ‘tis safer there’.
Young and old suffer war time fear
As search lights sweep the night sky
Sirens wail as wee babe’s shed a tear
Who, we wonder this night will die.
My brother Peter crawls in with a frown
‘Don’t fret baby girl, they won’t get us’.
Mum wrapping us in the old eiderdown.
‘Bloody Hitler’, he moans,
Mum says not to cus.
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