Dead Easy

Born in 1936, I ate, drank, slept the war.
Didn’t know what ‘war’ meant, but I recall how it felt.
It felt like my Dad was never coming home
and it smelled of coal-dust and paraffin stoves

and it sounded like them sirens when Mum said
get in that cellar quick, else the bogy-man’ll get ya.
My Nan, always took her knitting. I was right glad
she did. The needles click-clacked – kind of nice that.

And then, the sound of those words, the questions
I’d often ask her. “When’s Dad coming back?”
“He’ll be home, real soon – like I told you before,”
which was always her answer. “So what does he do?”

“He flies planes – drops bombs on them Krauts,” she’d reply.
“How can he tell – from way up there?” I’d reply.
“That’s just like you. Want to know the ins and outs
of a nag’s behind,” she scolded. He never did

come back and I’d get to wonder if he took
a wrong turn or if someone shot him down – maybe
thought he was a German. When I grew up I often
tried to imagine what it must have been like for him,

up there, in the clouds. Must have been a bit like
playing God – deciding who lives and who dies
at the press of a button. So easy to lose touch with reality.
When you’re that high, you can’t hear people scream.
Whatever language they do it in.