ON A CHILD ASLEEP IN A TUBE SHELTER
London, March 1944 HE sleeps undreaming ; all his world Furled in its winter sheath ; green leaves And pale small buds fast folded lie As he lies curled as if his mother's arms Held him and tenderly kept the world away.
His eyelids draw soft shadows down And ward away the harsh lights' glare ; His parted lips draw breath as though Breathing grass-scented, cool, hill-country air He tasted not this subterranean draught.
Pacing the platform soldiers pass, Civilians, wardens in uniform, girls, Airmen and sailors ; trains rattle in The crowd dissolves, resettles ; yet he sleeps Deep in oblivion, beyond their farthest call, Whose searchlights finger stars but pass Looking for something else. Whose town Sleeps with its eyes half-closed, its ears Alert for war's alarms, whose troubled dreams Stir the light surface of night's uneasy sleep.
The child is hidden underground Yet sleep will lovingly seek him out And keep him tenderly still till dawn.
Above, men listen for the roll of guns And sighs lie on the lips of drowsy watchers.
SHEILA SHANNON.
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