It was only a small group of people
near the lamp-post that misty night,
no more than ten or perhaps eleven at the most.
Being nine years old I didn't really know
why Dad and me were there at all.
Nobody seemed to have much to say, as though,
in a way, it would have broken a Spell.
I could tell Dad didn't want to leave,
just wanted to stand there and share
the splutter of Gaslight after years of
stumbling around in the dark. Dad, having been
in the ARP always said that the spark
from a lighted match could be seen by
enemy bombers four miles up.
But the lamp showed a new beginning
symbolic of our winning.
My thanks to the few who pulled us all through
alive
in
'45.
by
Shirley Frances Winskill 1997
