The Germans won’t bomb us Gwyneth

   Part 1
 
Sirens wail…
Gwyneth runs,
dragging me home.
‘The Germans won’t bomb us Gwyneth…’
 
Meanwhile, in Europe,
bombs rain down
on other children
 
For a year, nothing happens.
School is suspended,
shelters built.
We play in the fields,
oblivious.
 
Then one morning,
Home Groups begin.
The long holiday is over.
 
It’s down the shelter every night.
Rationing, bread-queues, homemade toys.
 
Gwyneth and I become latch-key kids
before social workers thought to name us.
Caring for each other,
with Mum at the factory
exhausted after work.
 
‘The war will be over in a year’,
Dad says.
Later, feels it could be ten.
It’s unreal,
the horror doesn’t touch me then.
 
Bombed-out families:
their problems and sorrows
shared with the street.
‘Marie can come to us, Mum!’
Her brother, Ronnie,
goes to neighbours.
 
Family parties…
Dad, red-faced, shining,
‘Knees up mother brown…’
Renee, vamping piano,
says I’ve big feet.
 

   Part 2
 
Dad’s joined the Party.
Huddles round the wireless
shushing us kids to hear
Old Winnie’s speeches.
(Dad’s comrades do the same).
 
Stalin’s our ally, Russians – heroes!
I’m grateful to the Russians,
distressed by their suffering.
 
A bright yellow trainer-plane
flies low between the houses.
We kids rush out,
wave to the pilot.
He, poor sod, man at eighteen,
is petrified; cannot respond.
 
Softened-up by landmines
Mum becomes hysterical,
won’t go down the shelter.
Dad slaps her – just the once,
‘Think of the children, woman!’
The crisis passes.
 
At the entrance to the shelter
we watch London burning.
‘Jerry’s going for the docks again’,
someone says.
 
Our Vicar
knew the horror
of the First World War.
He prays for us all,
foe and friend.
The congregation’s angry,
but can’t make him bend.
 
Last night,
flares sought out Northolt.
Today we fear the worst,
but the ’drome’s all right,
camouflaged and dispersed.
 
At school,
Teacher – who likes to beat kids,
puts swastikas by our names
if our Mums can’t afford
Saving Stamps again.
 
Victory over Europe!
Badly burnt pilots
with terrible faces,
and pride of place,
walk arm-in-arm with pretty girls.
 
‘The Germans won’t bomb us Gwyneth…’

Dennis Evans

first published in collection, Earth Anchor, 1997, Celebration Press.