A wide-eyed boy, urgent and loud banged
On our front door that night and shouted. Get Out. Bomb
He was clutching a gun talisman-tight to his camo uniform
This boy was not much older than my son is now
His hair was wet with sweat around the brim of his beret
My mother’s response was to pad into the kitchen,
Wrap custard creams in tissue paper for the two mile walk to
Her sister’s house. Coats over pyjamas and shoes without
Socks. The stars shouting silently. Miniature escape routes. I
Had never been out so late.
Now we cram into boats.
We have washed up small and dead on beaches.
Dismembered by bombs, skewered by shrapnel.
Raped and taught to kill.
They’ve thrown us half-alive on our mother’s
Corpses in open graves.
It is hard to believe that once food was made and packed for us.
Our hair was brushed. We said our prayers.
Someone settled us back to sleep and our cries were answered.
A wide-eyed boy, urgent and loud banged
On our front door that night and shouted. Get Out. Bomb
He was clutching a gun talisman-tight to his camo uniform
This boy was not much older than my son is now
His hair was wet with sweat around the brim of his beret.