My old self, an eight year old,
in Bradford’s home embrace,
when war in Europe ended;
missing my older brother, a
cold sailor in the Atlantic
storms, anchored in Canada.
He returned, safe, proudly
with his Canadian bride,
to a freezing Britain; and
an unhappy baptism into
winter’s desolation taking
them back, never to return .
Odd, now to remember 1945
in a Cumbrian village, my
retirement home, among
different voices, wanting
to honour all those who
served during the war.
This, in a time of virus
induced isolation, with
a new generation at war
with a silent enemy, in
uniforms unlike anything
proudly worn before.
The flags are out, and lots
of bunting quickly made,
flutters in the sunny breeze.
Our tables, dressed for tea,
sit separate on the paths,
each socially distant.
Greetings pass across the
festive street, and at the
stroke of three o’clock
we raise our glasses in
a toast, to thank both
serving generations.