Joseph

You told me at bedtime
of a secret land, where
planes, tanks and troops
resided, primed to kill for
our republic of Essex.

You said tomorrow the
enemy will be within
the marshes and creeks
of Benfleet, mortars
aimed at Basildon.

The invasion never came
and after breakfast,
you went shop lifting
with Steven Bennett instead.

I listened to the radio all day,
waiting for news of war,
stocking up on mum’s ripe fruit
and hiding beneath my bed,
until you came home to fight.

Brother and I, we were
nothing but children,
and searching back through
the years, the memories
are as sweet to eat
as those segments
from the oranges peeled
clean from their pith. 

And as sour as
those socks that
hastened my surrender
to your peculiar orders
under torchlight.