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For Uncle Spen

My Uncle Spen was the eccentric of the family.
When doodle bugs whirred and bombs fell and all were stirred by the silence of hell,
When shelters were constucted in backyards and the glass of windows became devilish shards, When sirens sounded and mothers feared,
When fathers departed never to return,
When all of us felt war’s cold burn,
Spen treated it all with scorn.
He walked to the shelter in the best he had worn.

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