Big, fat, soft bodied nana,
a sofa of flesh
for grazed knee snuggles,
a plump pillow for tiny heads
who could never have guessed
at what the word ‘struggles’
really means.
Nor the roar of Dorniers
calling down through clouds
and the shrieks in the black
of a Morrison shelter
as hellfire dropped unwarranted.
Nor the digging out at dawn,
no time to mourn
the smouldering embers
of a home lost forever.
Nor how a family was dragged
shoeless through the streets
in search of shelter
and anything to eat.
Nor how big, fat, soft bodied nana
was once just a mother
with a hand on her husband
and an arm round six children,
who found them a route
through pillar and post,
from bombs to spare floors
to new windows and doors
with a warm space in the centre
of everything for the kids.
Harry Gallagher
