It's Still Life

June 1962: All That Noise and Bomb Drills

Summer rain fell
on our white winter arms,
that much we both remembered.
It was a chill
that tightened the skin.
Stiffened your bones.

And we’d hang around
like two stretched ropes,
sitting on the front steps
waiting for Dad to come home.
Do you remember, she laughed,

when we drew smiles on the moon.
On the window. With Mum’s lipstick.
We always finished each other’s thoughts …
And when we dug holes to China.
With a spade, I said. And a bucket.

And those clouds that hung over
fearful days and darkened the soul.
Like a birch switch, she said.
Russian bombs. Cuban spies…
I remember the teacher would shout,

Quick under the desk, and
pull down the blinds.

It took years before we discovered
just how quiet summer rain was.

Poetic Bloomings: 7 July “Summer Rain” This is inspired by a conversation I had with my sister last year.