every night, the klaxon
wailed, like a hound lost in the fog

Mum and I would be sitting down
to dinner when the beast began bellowing

she would quip, them Gerrys want me
on thin rations, and to the cellar we scuttled

Mum would bring a votive candle, a pale of water;
I would grab Tag, our shivering terrier

in our tiny circle of timid light, we would wait and wonder,
how far were they? what would the next sun reveal?

on All Saints Eve, the house shuddered; the dust
from its two centuries drifted down on us like fine rain

then all was still, until we fell asleep--maybe she was
dreaming of Father, and what field now held him

I was not--sleep had taken me but a moment before
our tired beams moaned and gave way

Tag was then barking through his tremors, and she lay
still in the rubble, her eyes slit open

though only enough to see I was there to bury
her, in green pasture

far from this gloom, her quivering pet  
and orphaned manchild