The Cot

The collective machinery nightly hummed and bombed
your sooty town, pillowed it in dust: the bombs plummeting
like desperate women hitting the Clyde.

The sirens brought you huddles and cuddles
amongst the cacophony sent to kill you.
The tumbling walls of next doors houses
dropping like drunks on the stairs;
and you’d scream in the noise to drown it.

And two tiny feet would trot to your cot
where a safe silence sat in the middle of midnight.
But next year, at three, your ma and da found
you had escaped a war unscathed but unsaved,
only to succumb in silence to the licking of a shoe.


4 thoughts on “The Cot

  1. I’m new to your blog Brian and I’m glad to be here. Your poetry is very evocative. I’ll go back to read the others. And I look forward to further posts. All best, Susan.

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