Take Me Please

Here is a poem I wrote this month, stimulated by a title suggested by my writing group, Woking Writers’ Circle. This is the story of my childhood; every line is packed with history.  Some readers will recognise some of the elements while some may remain personal to me.  It has no rhyming and no meter but it is poetry.

Take me Please

Borne in a blizzard
Babied in a tin hut, ex RAF
Upgraded to a mobile morgue, disused
Palaced in a council flat, Mr Atlee

Coal from the embankment
Pink paraffin
Linoleum, only second hand
Cold bath on Sundays

Butter from the ration book
Eggs from isinglass
Pork brawn from a pig’s head
Beans and spuds, home grown

Tank aerial fishing rod
Worms from the compost heap
Float from a feather
Little trout from the brook

Bomb holes and barbed wire beaches
Dibs and alleys in the playground
At the annex
Too many kids this year

Bournemouth Belle; 4:15
Be home for tea
On the way
A rabbit with mixxi, bulging blind eyes

No messing with Mr Harrison
Rear gunner from a Lancaster, one leg
Good at maths
Short on patience

Mr Bamford knew his English
He had the other leg
Swung on the goal post, broke it off
Mr Young used his cane

Anthony liked boys
But played with the girls
Beryl Birch wore a loose blouse
Sweet mystery

Dan Dare and the Mekon
Dad’s going to check his snares
Take me please