POEM: Air raid at Christmas

IN the corner house we try to be merry,

It’s Christmas time after all.

The siren wails, here comes “Gerry”,

We run for cover down the hall.

In the kitchen cupboard I find my place,

Planes drone above, my stomach churns.

I put my hands across my face,

Will bombs be dropped and our house burned?

Beneath the square of the old oak table,

Mother holds Lily and Bernadette.

She gathers them in as best she’s able;

John has not been born just yet.

Within the wedge below the stairs,

Little Annie is brave with us.

She cuddles up and says her prayers,

With Aunt Teresa who stays with us.

Mary Treveil,

Ardrossan Road,