the heat of battle

the heat of battle

 

with dad dead and gone

the house was mine

his treasures overflowed a skip

 

on top of a dresser

a locked tin box

needed forcing open

 

in it ribbon-tied

bundles of letters

and photographs

 

mum and dad’s wedding

she’s holding a posy

and smiling

 

dad’s grinning

in a fifty-bob demob suit

nicked one night from Burton’s  window

 

the date on the back

proved the rumour

I was already on the way

 

a summer snapshot

the happy couple

paddling at Mablethorpe

 

he’s in a double-breasted

Prince of Wales check,

and jaunty trilby,

 

eating a what looks like

a dribbling peach,

trousers rolled

 

mum in a flowery frock

hitched seaside inches

above the knee

 

she's patting

her bulging belly –

that was me

 

my eyes lit up at

a buff-coloured

War Office envelope

 

dad had been a hero,

but heroes kept schtum,

and dad's lips were sealed

 

I opened the envelope,

unfolded, and read

a buff-coloured form

 

dad’s details;

name, date of birth,

cursive script, purple ink

 

his exemption from service,

reserved occupation -

bakery worker

 

my dad passed oven-blast nights

wafting breaths of sugar

over jam-free pastries

 

and baking bread

for mopping plates clean

of rabbit stews and Woolton Pies.