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Tony Dawson's avatar

Embers

Three years old,

I’m in a garden

in the middle of Rectory Square.

The embers in remembers

keep the memory warm.

Then, escape from the Blitz

in a taxi, lit by flares

snagged on bombed-out buildings.

For the embers in remembers

are stirred by the war in warm.

Our new house is quite empty,

except for a black grate;

red brick’s replaced by pebbledash.

The embers in remembers

have still not turned to ash.

My mother’s eyes

and cheeks are glowing.

Now, she is content.

Alas, the embers in remembers

are almost spent:

the Junkers drone above again,

relief soon turns to fear.

Huddled by the staircase,

the embers in remembers

recall her warm embrace.

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