White haired old Aunts search for tonics in gin,
sat stiff and straight, thinner than pins;
looking at photos, those moments in time,
stuffed in a shoe box with loves nursery rhymes.
Pictures of babies in blue sailor suites
Dad smiles benignly. “Don’t they look cute?”
Here is an album he’s turning the page,
Granddad grins like a monkey, trapped in a cage.
Time for reflection some body laughs,
at a shiny pink infant stuck in a zinc bath.
The cold air raid shelter down by the path,
where virgins got lost and the die was recast.
Rationing fashioning worn down at heel,
eye liner to draw on a pencil thin seam.
Legs gravy tanned, white at the thighs,
some kinds of pleasures will not be denied.
There they were huddled round old wireless sets,
cursing far away men who they never had met.
Not one single bomb rattled the door
as dad clenched his fist during our phoney war.