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Poem

Every picture I’ve seen of you as a child,
You wear your hair in plaits.
A stern middle parting and two dark brown braids
Falling down on each shoulder. 
A maypole’s dream.

You would do your best to wash them when you could,
When shampoo was available,
Or even in the single, small bathroom.
You would vigorously scrub your face too 
With a brush and a bar of soap.
Until it stung.

It would get the dirt out you see,
Always look the most presentable you can,
As instilled by your father with his lean frown that never faltered.
Neatness and cleanliness are next to godliness, Georgina.
The dirt never leaves, though;
It’s contagious.

Fingers, toenails, arms, neck, behind the ears,
The remnants from the bombed buildings’ skeletons
You were just playing on from the previous night. 
Air-raid sirens wailing like a baby in distress.
Arms wrapped around brothers in silence as instructed, 
You never cease to be their second-in-command maternal figure. 
No brother now.
That cheeky five-year-old who followed you down Chelsea’s streets
Was taken by the fires, by the wailing.

Now you're wailing as you hold onto the hand of your mother
As she takes you to the ‘hospital’,
A large brick building holding a sign with ‘Barnardo’s’ 
Written in polite cursive over the arched doorway.
Panic fills you like the silence in the left side of your head,
An intense realisation of lacking in the grimy hospital room, 
Of your parents, your brother, of the bone behind your left ear. 
You say: When is my mother coming?
And are met with the same response: 
She visited you whilst you slept,
A lie only revealed to you as you heard the nurses mutter.
They just couldn’t afford her.

You pretend not to hear and scrub your face free from the dirt.
You plait your hair and continue to wait another day.

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