Siren

I can never know the dread of

those who heard cut out doodle-bug;

the sadness those who saw the wheel

of bicycle slow turn atop

the bomb-site, handlebars mark of

grave under metal, dust and brick.

Mother, first time blitz siren heard

was wearing treat, her brand new dress;

on pavement she newspaper spread

and then lay down, air-raid prepared.

Father dug at The Rookeries

within the sound of Biggin Hill

when buried deep, just head revealed;

he lived because was rescued last.

I cannot know; they little spoke

of despairs, agonies and loss.

But rocket stillness, spinning wheel,

newsprint, clean dress, and soil to neck;

these they told and tales haunted me.