Saturday afternoon

 Sitting in the silent classroom

I am not alone.

Each empty desk speaks

of the child it harbours

on normal days.

Today, I am accompanied

by a myriad of scribbled thoughts, ideas, feelings;

each story shouts its author’s personality.

I read. I smile. I frown.

I scribble my thoughts.

This Saturday afternoon

I give each child my undivided attention, as if

they are the only one in front of me.

Ah, teaching.

#notyourusualMondaytoFridayjob

 

 

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Occupation, Liberation

Seventy-five years ago we lived

in fear. Menfolk absent or obeisant:
we women uncertain, scared
yet brave.
What courage it took to live a daily life
cheerfully for children.
Liberation brought
the freedom
to live our lives unfettered
once again.
Be thankful.

Such jubilation – free at last
from German domination.
For five long years our every move
under scrutiny, our lives stolen.
Yet liberation did not come to all.
We grieved
for those still imprisoned in a foreign land.
Even more
For those lives
snatched early.

Freedom lifts our spirits.
Memories of loss
remain.
Our present
still haunted by our past.
Never forget those sacrifices.

Advent

In the long waiting
Time seems to stretch around us.
Seemingly no end.

Joy lasts forever
but waiting drags dirty feet
Beyond the present.

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.

Stitches in time

The door yielded gently, catching on the ruffled rug. Memories flew up, dust

dancing in a beam of sun streak.  A patchworked quilt of recollections lay

crumpled on the bed, hues faded. Soft curtains barred the light, muffling thought:

the air, cloaked in kindness, hung soft.

Worn fingers had woven stories in stitches, darns of in and out

throughout the turnaround of time. Creases in her skin spoke of a weft of adventures

athwart the warp of years. Holes in the heft of life, cobbled together by

the innocence of children, made beautiful in gentleness.

Air breathed, dry papery with age. Needles, thread, scissors

Beckoned on the dresser. Neglected rag bag nestled next to embroidery silks

spilling joyously from their box. An invitation: past to present, skill to artist’s

heart.

Silence smiled, remembering.

School games

I hurtle, unwilling ball hit with the racquet of contempt. Flying helplessly

towards the past, overtaken by small unkindnesses

I am again a seven year old. Outcast by the playground wall, eying up

confidence with curiosity. Perfect pigtails take wing

in rounds of merriment,

jeers and joking, laughter and lies, merry misery of games without fun

and I play alone. Who talks of the ‘innocence of children’?

Such who do suffer false memory, yet I KNOW.  Set up for mockery,

 humiliation of a tender heart;

wishing invisibility, edging slowly towards cold haven classroom,

I am halted by the sound of my name. She tosses dark hair from honest eyes.

“Would you like one?” Cautiously, I accept a lifetime of friendship.

Memories

Unlocking the treasure chest of yesteryear,
Initially, distance creates fondness, the patchwork lying below
indistinct, colours blending happily. Landscape of the mind breathes
with the contentment of time, viewed hazily through a cheerful heart. But then, the Jump
back into the past. Emotions plummet, skydiving towards the mess of memories.

The door yielded gently, catching on the ruffled rug of memory. A
patchworked quilt of recollections lay crumpled on the bed,
hues faded with time. Soft curtains barred the light, muffling thought:
the air, cloaked in kindness, hung soft.

Yet something seemed to stir. Some awful thing lay unmoving,
maleficent, a lacerated fur of innocent creation. Shrieks sparked at dust,
a howling heart left alone among dark conifers. Innocence wept in loss.

“Hush, child of my heart,” came the whisper, “you were not deserted.
Rescue has come: do you not perceive it?” Time had trickled onwards,
tender oil healing mercifully, pouring into wounds and healing scars.

But not enough. That cruel cloak still lurked within the closet, waiting
to be used once more in dreadful daylight. What I longed for
was annihilation of those destructive memories. No awakening. Ever.