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By kind permission of the Author

“Dig for Victory,” the posters said,
Though I could never see the sense of it.
They’d tried, and failed, that first year of the war,
Our wounded garden scarred by that great pit
That only partly held the shelter’s curve,
Half concealed by sods that once were lawn.
Any German airman worth his salt,
Turning homeward in the early dawn,
Would spot at once that someone like my dad
Would never leave his garden in that state
For Mum to grieve the loss of hollyhocks,
Casting heavenward her nightly hate.

In those shelters all our world, it seemed,
Gathered on damp deck chairs in the dark
In overcoats, with flasks and picnic rugs,
A travesty of summers in the park.
And neighbours told us stories of their youth
And half remembered fairy tales, the two
Confusing in our sleepy minds, so that
The books we read by daylight seemed untrue,
Making no reference to next-door’s Gran,
Focusing instead on giants and trolls,
However you pronounce the silly word,
No Dad to tell you if it rhymed with dolls.

‘This story was submitted to the People’s War site by ��ѿ��ý Radio Merseyside’s People’s War team on behalf of the author and has been added to the site with his/ her permission. The author fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.’

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