Under the stairs and

clinging to Mum, we

had a rough time of

it, from bombers that

hummed overhead, and

dropping their payloads

on docks, and the sheds


A pox on their heads

some people said, as

other folk cussed and

Mum waved her fist and

mouthed, God make them

stop. Please make them

stop, don’t let those sods


bear down on us. And

buses and houses were

pock marked or worse,

as calls to funeral parlours

summoned the hearse. Yet

when normality returned

such memories lived on


Some people recall it as

if just yesterday. Our

invoice for freedom is still

marked unpaid, and the Last

Post still sounds for the

unmarked war graves and

heroic lives lost so that

others could be waived





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