Bringing in the May, 1941
When the sirens cried,
my grandmother hustled four
babies into the mud-crowned
steel of the backyard shelter
and hooded them
by turning her back on the planes—
speck of grit in a wet city
The window glass blew
into the parlor
like a wish, like the shards
of a dandelion
No moving vans in blitzed
Liverpool, not even horses,
just white rubble strewn
like hawthorn branches—
she pushed the furniture
in a handcart through
the reborn streets
In the coal cellar of the new
house, she sang of the bright
spring fires catching,
blossoming—
They trembled
as the morning light
trickled down in ribbons 
Contributor’s notes
The Dead Man, 1958
The Electrician's Mate, 1954