Guernsey. 1945.

Cold morning dawned over the mirrored sea. There had been no end

to gazing out at blackness, no moon to light the coming

of invaders, no warmth of light to break away the chill.

Eyes searched, bored, from our concrete fortresses.

Secure the islands, we were told. Churchill wants them back,

so buttress, shore up all defences, reinforce the

reinforcement, coerce this once-gentle shoreline to

brace against all comers.  Be ready.

They never came. Instead we, night after week after month,

yearned for our homeland, for beer and sausage; the smiles

of frauleins. Five long years we occupied those ‘dear’ islands,

rocky outcrops adrift mid-Channel.

Morning dawned over the mirrored sea. Soon

our occupation would be over. Starved of all

we needed, liberation would be welcome. Even

for us:  Germans.