They made a thunderstorm
above the village green, the day
we won the war. The church
stayed unstruck, but constant rain
inundated the roadsides. Our cars
stuck in the verges; we barely
made it to the station, but we left
our mark alright.
Midday was a blackout; we queued
like soldiers with our hands placed
on the shoulder of the man in front.
We kept each other’s spirits up
with tales of what we’d do if
the enemy moved in next door.
The rain came in waves
but we waded through the filthy mud
to make an ‘X’ with a blunt pencil
and took it back for ourselves.
We sat outside the English pubs
that night, our warm beers buzzed
by tiny flies. We picked out the foreign
bodies, squeezed them with our fingertips,
looked pleased with ourselves. Come
the morning, we said, we’d see what
we had done, what we’d created.
The night was so hot, we kicked
the sheets off, and slept like swastikas.Tags: Domestic (UK)
Categorised in: Article
This post was written by Simon Cockle