A child of ‘The Forties’

A child of starvation and wanting for food,
Of life’s depravation, where no greed dare intrude,
Not wanting, not wasting, we hadn’t a lot,
Just grateful for living, and for what little we’d got.

A child of dark houses, with mud riddened street,
Poor lighting, thin clothing, not much on our feet,
But a fire burning brightly, cast a blanketing glow,
To warm a dark household where love only did flow.

A child of ‘The Forties’, a child of the war,
Who clung to existence on Britain’s fair shore,
Whose fighting men bravely, resisted the foe,
With rifle and cannon, face to face, toe to toe.

A child of ‘The Forties’ is seventy years on,
And that child’s depravation is over and gone,
But still in his mind, in his ‘old fashioned’ way,
That ‘child of the forties’ will not go away.

Perhaps it’s the thought of the hunger he had,
That makes him feel so bitter, and secretly sad,
To see all the squander and waste of today,
And still all of the world, – in a mad disarray

Mick
(Copyright Michael Westwood 2014)