W.A.R

When I was just a little boy of two or three or four,
It was quite some time ago so I don't remember clearly anymore.
I lived in a city with my older sister and my mum,
My dad was killed when I was two in the war by the German scum.

William was my first name and Routledge was my last
Arthur was my middle name but my chosen one if asked.
We were a poor family with not many worldly goods,
But mum loved us dearly and worked as hard as she could.

I'd walk to work with her each morning, at the crack of dawn,
She'd scrub the floors of wealthy houses until her knee's were worn.
We'd walk for miles there and back along a lengthy straight road,
Mum never complained of the burden of carrying her heavy cleaning load.

She had hands that were calloused, blistered and rough, 
She was weary, worn out and tired as life was pretty tough.
She was a natural blonde, with icy blue eyes that were older than her years,
Often I caught her clutching dads shirts, them glistening with tears.

We lived in a small two bed terraced in the slum,
With blacked out windows, no electric or water to run.
The floors were hard wood, I'd always have a splinter or two,
And we'd have to run down the garden to use the communal loo.

I was mocked for being the poor boy with one pair of shoes to my name,
But if I'm honest us kids back in them days all pretty much looked the same.
The same sooty skins from rubble, the same holey linen coats
The same rumbling tummies living off rations and watery oats.

I knew she missed dad and life in the war was hard,
So on her day off work, I'd go out and play in the yard.
It was difficult to make friends back in the war days,
playgrounds became rubble and houses a fallen maze.

I once met a boy my age with dirty blonde hair called Ted,
We'd play out in the street until it was time for bed.
Wearing our masks and playing among the bricks and rubble
Always listening out for the sirens and any sound of trouble

His dad had died too, it was common occurrence back then,
We tried to talk about it one night but the sirens went again. 
He lived a few doors down from me at number twenty one.
I went to knock on for him the next morning, but his house was gone.

Instead it was replaced by rubble, brick and dirt
It taught me not to get too attached but still it always hurt.
We lived in terror and can't forget some of the things we saw,
Life was hard as a child in the blitz, such is the way of war.



This poem was wrote in memory of all the stories my grandad would sit and tell me about life growing up in the war. 
William Arthur Routledge 
27.2.38-29.1.16

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