My Little blitz babes.

My Little blitz babes...
                  

I hear the loud children’s voices,
sweetly rise high above the ruins.
They play the games of children,
all around them, lives are strewn.

With daydreamers indifference,
and a thumb in mouth contempt.
Grown ups just stare with dismay,
at where their childhoods spent.

No child has more than the other,
their certainly all in one boat.
No tiny tot tantrums here my dear,
and no one in position to gloat.

Who would dare deny to them,
the pleasure of make believe.
That in this place there is utopia,
a place the adults can’t conceive.

As they see homes blown away,
forcing them to shelter underground.
No you can‘t stop their lives today,
can you not hear their merry sound.

The flying beast that comes nightly,
dropping bombs to do them harm.
Can’t see them play in bomb craters,
their scarred beauty, or warred charm.

See them throw rocks at spy planes,
and imagine them falling to earth.
Then they race among the embers,
the child’s mind alive, as if at rebirth.

Yes they miss their peaceful freedoms,
to sleep comfortably quiet, every night.
But they will survive this warring blitz,
in a child’s mind, they know what’s right.

this poem was originally called
 my little bomb bairn dears.
 bairn is Sottish for baby..