The warmth of early morning sun

Gently heats her shoulders.

Her mother, methodically,

Peels a potato pile,

Into small red washing up bowl,

Sings softly to herself.

A round tin table with wire legs

On tiled balcony floor.

Slightly bent railings, needing paint

Blue shuttered door hangs straight.

This girl, in her white patterned dress,

Sitting quietly as mum makes lunch,

Surveys shattered bomb site.

Buildings all around peeled open,

Like giant sardine tins,

Their contents spilled onto green lawns.

Everyday lives revealed.

All her neighbours now moved away,

To camps and countries new,

Friends in school now seem spirit like,

Sounds of mopeds ghostly,

Still stand swings, gone her roundabouts.

Parents hanging on still,

Clinging tenacious to their home,

Their room without a view.

Harry Rogers, Aberbanc, February 20th 2017.

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