Letters: Two poems to mark VE Day

David Starsmeare shares two of his poems to mark VE day. The poems are from a set which take us from the early days of war, his times as an evacuee in the West Country, and then back to London.  

Celebrations VE DAY, May 1945

Wounded in France long years before

Our father would not let us put out any flags

To celebrate the ending of the war.

Too many dead he said, too many cities burned.

Yet he took us into London on the train

To see celebrations of the Peace.

There were lessons to be learned.

From the train we saw the facts.

So many shops and offices destroyed.

In residential streets so many gaps,

But bright flags flew in every space

Red ensigns, saltires, Union Jacks

And a rich miscellany from other lands.

We heard Churchill on a tannoy in Whitehall.

The Royals waved upon a balony.

Revellers danced the Hokey Cokey in the Mall

A brass band led soldiers down the Strand.

And at their head a general in an open car

Gave such a vigorous salute that Dad

Felt obliged to salute him in return.

Well, he said – could have been Montgomery.

Mother, who had no time for such parades

Had shared with neighbours our few rations

And lined the street in splendid peace time fashion

With beer, sandwiches, cakes and lemonade.

Then let us feast til we could feast no more.

Later a woman played an accordion in the dust

While parents danced beneath the cherry trees

An evening more beautiful than all the flags of war.

David with his brother John and his parents Mary and Gerald Starsmeare.

A Rare Visit

So, this is my Dad.

This shape sprawled in an awkward chair,

A brown spotted handkerchief over his face

Deep asleep.

Mixed with his own sweet skin smell

I scent

Erasmic, Lifebuoy, cherry blossom, Golden Virginia.

His thick coat and trilby hat lie nearby.

I scent

Grease, wool, railway stations, burned things.

On a table is a toy barn he has made for me.

I scent

Green paint, red paint, glue, kindness.

Why should he make this for me,

This man I so seldom see,

Who works all week in a burning city

And hides from bombs in railway stations?

Why should he travel these dark miles

To bring a toy to a small child?

I scent

Exhaustion, doggedness and love

In this sprawling man.

And watch in wonder

As the brown spotted handkerchief

Moves inwards and outwards

With his soft breath.

I do not wake him,

But holding my green barn, stand close by

Matching my breathing

To his.

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