"Memories" is one of the prompts offered this week by The Gooseberry Garden
Seven or eight and once again
in hospital as Christmas comes -
but this time round have fingers crossed,
hoping to go home tomorrow.
Tonight, a savage thunderstorm:
it shakes the walls and rattles beds,
echoes overlay each other;
flash follows flash without a break.
So sister comes to calm the ward.
We tell her that the bangs are bombs;
the lightning flashes gunfire and
incendiary bombs igniting.
We have an air raid, not a storm.
She plays along. Her face shows fear.
She shelters underneath her desk,
cries oo-er at each flash and bang.
Now matron comes. Is not amused.
Sister, control yourself, she says.
You are more childish than your wards!
(Sister's in trouble, next we hear.)
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
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