Put Out More Flags

 

 

That song. Really?

My dad said

they used to sing

‘Whale Meat Again’,

as rationing stayed

another nine years.

A bitter victory.

 

He was lucky,

in the RAF

(like me).

“Royal Air Force”

he always said.

Three years in France

‘52 to ‘55.

 

‘You should have seen

the market stalls’,

no coupons there;

“comme ça-comme ça-comme ça?”

Tommy Gun French

fired at my mum

by the butcher.

 

They never had it

so good as that

-better than some-

my mum and dad,

coddled by service life

through some grim

and grimy decades.

 

“We all fought together.”

Victory streets were

Empire-lined but

it was “no dogs,

no irish, no blacks”

in the net-curtained

bay-windows, later.

 

And here are we,

donning the clothes

of past heroes

invoking bulldog spirit,

clap,clap,clapping for

Spanish Jorge, Romanian Danuta

and Rosa from the Philippines .

 

Just wait.

 

After the looking back

in sentiment is over,

we’ll forget,

again, like always,

and the flag will fly

for Mr Toad, frothing

on the beaches.

 

(For my dad. WO A Lawrie: 1927-2018, RAF 1946-1977)