On VE Day, May 8th, 1945, my mother danced in the street with all the other teenage girls
It was from relief, rather than of victory
There had been too much death a six-year tableau of spillage, breakage the random dice throw of annihilation
taking of friends, neighbours in night fires the sudden dismembering of meaning nightly scatter of parts.
Nothing special, unusual in that there was always somebody in greater pain.
Wedged between sandwiches and cake she remembered the night the ammunition factory went up
she, my grandparents tentatively emerged out of their shelter, moles in the silence of a sun lite dawn
to discover it, their garden, fertilized with seedings of empty shell cases
a brilliant brass glitter that farmed the lawn cannisters of instant grief made tame passive, shimmered in shinned angles of indefinable brilliance
Can I Come Down Now
He had everything, the model of the Apollo 11 rocket
crates of Lego, older brothers with an infinite supply of T Rex, Bowie
mysterious untouchable pillars of progressive rock flanking an extensive HI FI
a family that talked with no obvious dysfunction guilt
a range of instant dayglo puddings butterscotch, banana, edible unthinkable exotica.
Then the climbing frame a miracle of symmetrical steel that only the bravest could conquer
where Fifty years later I am still on the top bar
weight of metal pressing through flimsy tennis shoes, legs pulsating in terror
my eyes still focussed on the future, empty fields, stillness beyond rooftops.
Alan Hill has been writing for 25 years, starting in Botswana then in London and now in Vancouver, Canada. His latest book, In the Blood, was published by Caitlin Press in 2022.
