In The Small Hours: One Bedroom
John Brian Leaver's marvelous poem conjures up memories of boyhood days during wartime.
One bedroom . . .
bare, one bed, no chair,
just a wicker table square
to hold a night-light candle,
holy-water to sanctify,
a crucifix, stamped 'Germany'
long-lost INRI
Walls, a wash of green,
random stipples of faded cream
with length'ning spaces in between
where a hand succumbed to tedium's glaze
the room a calendar of broken days
Pictures, one, Our Lady of Sorrows
above the wicker with prayers
to be said when day is done,
Memorare and A Prayer for Peace
copied from the blackboard
of Standard One
In sable night I lie,
listening to raised voices,
parental rifts, and a sash-window's beat
when a westerly blows off Mellor Moor
and how, on such nights, linoleum lifts
Black-out curtains billow, part,
a bomber's moon invades my room
with splintering light to quiver
over lino, bed, and mind
and I pretend my prayers, at last, are heard,
no bomb shall fall on me tonight.
