Long Lane

Long Lane

 

after a skinful in Nellie’s, Beverley,

I missed the last bus back to Hull

and strode home the Long Lane way

belting, Pack up your Troubles,

at the top of my voice

without a care in the world

 

there was no one around

but I heard a crowd

behind a hedgerow

singing along,

 

”... smile, smile, smile”

 

then a silence

broken by an aircraft drone

and a baby suckling

 

“rock-a-bye baby on a tree top”

 

the woman wore a locket and brooch

kept tissue-wrapped, precious,

since the war in a bedroom drawer 

with a stack of photos of dad and her

 

she scanned the searchlight-slicing sky,

kissed cradle cap, and comforted,

 

“nothing will harm you tonight, bonny bairn… sleep tight.”

 

she seemed to see me, but gazed right through me

 

(I was a toddler when mum’s body was recovered

from our bomb-blast Bean Street sham four)

 

a shout, 

“bastuds are smashing Paull to buggery!”

 

mocking laughter and muted cheering

greeted the bombing of a dummy town,

of tea chests, bike lamps, canvas and straw

built outside Hull to fool the Luftwaffe

 

at day break

in hedgerow shelters,

and dry-ditch hideaways

possessions were bundled

for the sombre walk home -

(if home still stood)

in Stepney Lane or Boulevard

 

I tagged behind the straggle of ghosts -

shawls over their shoulders

and babes in their arms – humming,

 

“I’m tired and I want to go to bed”

 

walking past farms dotting green-leaf lanes,

to what remained of a ‘north coast town’ - 

 

with a name not worthy to be mentioned.