by Rachel Fallon
As the sirens wailed
And the bombs fell across the capital
They hastily gouged out the precious gemstones
And hid them deep beneath Windsor Castle
Returned to their refuge within the soil of the earth
As it was before hands pried them from the ground
and decided upon their worth
Glittering symbols of a powerful Empire
Forced underground as the Nazi’s raids begin
Removed; Sitting in the darkness
Shielded within an old biscuit tin
Above houses turn to rubble; mounds of stone; not precious or shiny
Once treasured for providing a humble home; a cherished sanctuary
Hiding below the surface
The most priceless of all
The souls that lay across the tracks on the underground floor
Unthinkable today
As I stand on the crowded platform
To imagine people talking, smiling, huddling to keep warm
I look out at the crowd of impatient faces, moving silently
Eyes down, the threat of terror causing an uncurrent of anxiety
The resilient citizens who endured the Blitz
The people who pieced London back together
Brick by brick
Surviving on rations with barely enough to eat
Deserving more than crumbs off royal seats
Mind the gap.
Between the rich and the poor
A homeless man shivers outside a supermarket store
The crown jewels possessively sealed behind bomb-proof glass
Gazed upon by a conveyor-belt of tourists
Not looking to the future; too attached to the past
It’s important to remember
The most precious treasure we share
Is that we are Londoners
United by our humanity
Not a shiny hat that an old lady wears
Rachel Fallon is a playwright from Manchester who also enjoys experimenting with poetry.
Wells Street Journal 