A Friday morning in November
Poem by Jennifer Bell
They lay buried in white dust for two hours
A table flying from the blast settled
Across their bodies as they drifted just
As in a normal bed time calling them
To sleep. The city burned an orange glow
Warm in the night; occasional rumbles
Marked the distance as in summer thunder
Storms across the land punctuating dreams.
They would have slept the coming years away
Unhurt, unknowing who had won the war
Never to have recognised a new day
But for that chap whose spade knocked on the door.
Two souls freed for a spell to live their life
A dusty daughter and an airman’s wife.
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