Golden Guns

I was born just prior to the second world war. I lived through the war years in the UK, and Golden Guns expresses the paradox of a good childhood amidst war.

Growing years in which war was everyday.
Guns pounding in the night,
Reaching for shadows,
Amidst the search-lit
Dappled sky.
Roaring guns singing
Me a lullaby
Of another ordinary day,
Reassuring by what was
Normal in my world.

Tank traps,
Barbed wire barricades,
Rifle shells,
Tin foil from the sky,
And those glorious summers
In Rabbit and stoat
Filled harvesting.
Running behind
horse drawn carts
Full of wheat sheaves
With the street boys.

Climbing up the back rope
To ride on the top.
Looking down on
Old men behind
The horse.

These are my memories
Of good years.
And in those memories
Are the guns –
Those golden,
Golden guns.

Copyright ©2001 Tony Crisp