This week I’ve mostly been … honing.
Here’s a little something I honed while I was having my tea tonight. I wrote it a long time ago but thought it deserved a dusting off as a conversation I had had with friends on a website brought up the subject of what people we knew had contributed towards the war effort.
Dear old Betty was one of my customers but is sadly no longer with us. I read her this poem once and she was delighted, just as I was delighted to have known her.
Betty Lewis Eyes
A teapot on a tray she brings.
Digestive in each saucer.
Horrific tales of war to tell
But only if she’s forced to.
She’s angelic, prim and ninety
And no one’s ever heard her
Speak a single word of malice
But in her eyes there’s murder.
She’s always lived in Odd Down,
Feeding kids and darning socks,
But in August 1940
She worked in Plymouth docks.
To be a nurse, or cook, or clerk
She never could succumb.
The tool of dear old Betty’s trade
Was an anti-aircraft gun.
Cat gently pushed from comfy chair,
She pours the tea and sighs.
Her face lights up as she recalls
Blasting Fokkers from the skies.
Years have flown so quickly by.
Her kids have grown and fled.
Little to do but dust the flat
And recount the German dead.
Bombers came across the sea
To kill and terrorise.
Shot down by a deadly war machine
With Betty Lewis eyes.
Terry Mullan, October 2005
A Fokker G1 . . . the sort of thing that Betty would
think about whilst dipping a digestive into her cuppa.