Sitting alone: gently poking the embers.
Outside, children shriek in the street,
The dull thud of many running feet,
Go unheard by this child of the blitz;
His mind chained to the horrors he remembers.
Remaining locked inside his terrible fear,
From the Luftwaffe flying overhead,
Their murderous drone, his worst dread.
So run, poor child of the blitz,
And pray you receive the all clear.
Shunned by those who can’t understand;
This boy in the shape of a man,
Surviving the best way he can.
A forgotten child of the blitz,
Searching for his lost Wonderland.
People see it, plainly written in his eyes,
Passing him by; passing the blame,
Another victim for the war to claim.
A shell shocked child of the blitz,
When death rained freely, out of the skies.
Forever alert for those dangers long passed,
Listening for the sirens shrill whine,
Is their silence a very good sign?
For a terrified child of the blitz,
Continually bombed, and burned and gassed.
He desperately wants to forget, and has tried!
But the memories hack, and they hack,
And the terror comes creeping back.
So remember, this child of the blitz,
Who once lived, but who’s life sadly died.
© Paul Chafer 2014
My uncle,recently deceased, lived in Hull as a child during the war, was bombed, saw death first hand, suffered terrible things from which he never recovered: this is for him. Goodbye Ernest x