Over twenty years after the end
gardens still had hollow mounds
or curved corrugated tin domes half buried
some doing duty as tool sheds
many simply as they were
when the bombing stopped
full of the detritus of nights spent sheltering
while death flew overhead
Mounds and tunnels riddled
our playing fields
dry brick-lined hiding places
against bombers seeking factories
and factory workers
to blast and wreck
we used them for massive games of hide and seek
London streets had many gaps
festooned with stately spires of
purple flowers, amid mossy rubble
the occasional crumpled saucepan
so much broken crockery
As a child, my father collected bullets and bomb shards
watched fighters fall crashing out of the sky
and ran to collect souvenirs while the metal was still hot
I and my brothers knew wars last remnants
and played amongst ghosts
Copyright © 2020 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Bjorn is the host at dVerse, and is asking for poetry about war. Thankfully I have no direct experience. This poem is a slight re-write of one I wrote a while ago.
The Cheesesellers Wife 
I can see memories of the blitz were still very much alive in the London of your childhood. Evocative writing.
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Older people would flinch when the flood sirens went, that sound meant meant bombs to them.
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I remember my Grandma not liking fireworks for the same reason.
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Those of us who have no direct knowledge of war are fortunate, but as Ingrid noted, the memories of WWII were still very much alive in your childhood.
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It seems so strange now…..
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Yes, it does.
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This is such a moving write. I especially resonate with; “London streets had many gaps
festooned with stately spires of purple flowers, amid mossy rubble, the occasional crumpled saucepan so much broken crockery.”
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The spires of purple flowers are Purple Loosestrife. But we called it Bombweed.
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Thanks for sharing your childhood memories of the remnants of war in London. You took me there! 👏
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Thanks Tricia, I’m glad the poem did its work!
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This is a chilling, engaging piece of writing Kim. It offered me a vivid and sobering look at something I’d never experienced, a sorrowful reality of which I’d been unaware. Thank you for sharing this.
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To my brothers and I, the tunnels were a wonderful playground.
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Beautifully composed … hard to read, you made it real.
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Thank you Helen.
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To live in such remains, to grow up with memories… yes some of that is probably gone by now… but it probably lasted more than 20 years.
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All those remains finally went in the 1990s.
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For those living in times of war where homeland is bombed, war becomes part of who they are. A tragedy that keeps on giving.
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It was that generation that voted for Brexit, they are not comfortable with the idea of closer relations to once enemy nations.
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Britain has a better collective memory for the challenges they’ve endured that the United States does. Our appreciation and understanding of history is lacking, and that’s leading to a lot of problems.
I’m building a Facebook page, “Found Online,” where I can share links to poems I really enjoy for others to visit your site and explore your work. This poem is one I chose to link to. Check out the page at: https://www.facebook.com/joestoutfoundonline
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