THE POEM AS MEMOIR

The watercolour on the wall,
A view from the window
Of a war-time retreat,
Unrolls the years.

When sirens sound we lie
In rows under the bed
As the nightly bombers
Throb overhead.

The fields hot and fragrant,
Our first hay-making;
The farm kitchen cool,
The scent of scones baking.

Blackberries and bilberries
With junket and cream.
Hidden in hedgerows
Eggs still warm.

Winter was testing -
Rations trawled through snow,
The daily search for firewood,
The water-butt frozen.

My father's studio
A cottage damp and derelict
Where he and the fire
Smoken to their content

Who gazes through that window now
I do not know,
But sunsets there
Are still aglow.

EVELYN SNEYD Postal member of the Dowland Poety Society of Sussex.

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