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We waited quietly as the sirens calmed and quenched their searing drone.
The air raid shelter hushed in baited breath. One second more. Maybe the end is nigh.
All a quiet beneath an unseen sky. Maybe her child wont cry.
Maybe I wont every see those shower room white tiles staring back at me again.
Tiles arched over us. Over our laments and muffled cries. 

Our house our street. Will it be there.
Or will it be there but emptied by scounderels a plenty.
Stay close child and use my heat. This ticket office door pushes drafts beneath it.
Drafts into my ears her ears. Woolen socks pulled up as high as they can allow. 
One second more again the droning and I cover her ears my child don't listen.

Screaming Shrills and thuds again.Move away you bombs elsewhere.
To East ham or anywhere. And you you acursaid man. I do not know you. 
I fear your motives.If only my fire tending husband could defend me now.
Go down the platform now sir.We are bedded here and intend to stay till bombs end. 
This is our platform. Huddle close child the night is long and the platform grey and cold. 

Later it ends.Too soon to move.The parrafin stove simmers a kindly brew.
God above tea at last.Tea has saved the night and brought the dawn raids end.
For I know this that a war will be won and won with tea and no credit shall tea be given.
The moving masses alight from their drab and coated stage. Queitly and slowly maybe
reluctantly ascending to the London sky.Delaying the vacant and unknown future.  

 
London Tube station shelter in 1940-          Ian Foley

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