The War
My first memories as a little boy brought up in Sheffield was of my Mother, carrying my late, younger brother in one arm whilst pulling me along a burning, devastated street during a night time bombing to get to an Air Raid Shelter at the end of it.
We walked, ran and stumbled over rubble and bricks in a darkness lit only by the fires of the houses all around us. My ears will never forget the screaming of the bombs as they poured out of the dark skies, and the huge explosions and flames when they hit nearby property.
This poem is dedicated to that memory.
The War
It happened many years ago, in 1943, our family survived the war my Mum, my Dad and Me
For many nights we hardly slept, the ‘Shelters’ were our home
we’d share our food, our cups of tea, we’d even share our comb.
Whilst up the stairs, out in the street , the bombs came screaming down
there’s Fire, Glass and Water in what used to be our town.
The Co-op’ on the corner has been battered to the ground
some say there were folks in it, though no bodies have been found.
The Ambulances with bells aringing hurry through the night
they ferry broken bodies, some won’t make it….some just might!
The nurses and the doctors, they work with might and main
they ‘sew’, they reset arms and legs, give jabs to ease the pain
They mop up blood, they bandage arms and legs and heads just right…
but even they can’t stop the souls from going to heaven each night
Broken bodies placed in boxes are then laid into the ground
there’s nought to help the Police, the next of kin just can’t be found
it’s just one more lifeless body, dozens similar lay around
In the rubble that were houses, fired and battered to the ground.
Through the darkness of the evening, searchlights stab into the night
If it wasn’t for this war l’m sure, ‘twould be a lovely sight
Then they centre on a tiny dot, a plane up in the sky
but it beats me how that tiny plane makes grown up adults cry
Someone cries “The School has copped it and it’s going up in smoke”
“Hurray” the kids shout, “No more school”, but my Dad can’t see the joke
Comes the early light of morning, all the damage we can see
all the charred and burnt out wreckage, where our houses used to be
And, as if we haven’t had enough, it starts to pour with rain
that mixes with the dust and blood , and trickles down the drain
All this happened many years ago in 1943
Now my Mum has gone to Heaven, so’s my Dad
Now there’s just….Me !
Written by Dr Barrie Penhaligan
Dr Barrie Penhaligan
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