We were huddled round the fire.
That’s how it was back then.
Propped against spit stains.
“Disgusting.” Mother said.
Chilblains seemed small price to pay
as we stamped our feet.
Embers glowed, soon to be sheet of ash.
The coalman comes tomorrow,
no promises, he’ll want cash.

They were all bigger than me
and said I looked German.
This was 1953.
Sweets may or might not
have been rationed.
Not to mention
all the still bombed out buildings,
down at heel fashions.
“Probably related to ******.” One said.
“Someone told my gran down the launderette.”

Even though Adolf had been Austrian
I had to spend a year or so
steering a careful course.
Hid in shadows, took long cuts rather than short.
Got to know every back alley.
Found out of the way places,
Derelict air raid shelters where I’d bunker down.

It all faded away.
They got older, so did I,
Following other whims and fancies.
Life sometimes leads us a strange dance.
In my late teens at school, flirting with the Spanish language,
i wore bright red shirts and talked a load of bull.
No one linked me to Franco,
or offered me out for a fist fight
in the name of national pride.

Whatever happened to those
who rose through the floor
into orchestra pits of cinemas?
Playing familiar tunes
they created an interlude
among gilded decor.

Some married coquettish usherettes.
Others sought the gentle motion
created by a rise and fall of notes.
They bought houses with high ceilings
so that their music might float among stars,
whether their trajectory be up or down.