BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS POETRY

Naomi Parsons

Evacuation

My poor, dear, little boy is leaving his home, fleeing from the bombs unaccompanied. Alone. The train pulls up to the platform in a cloud of smoke.

“You’ll be home in a week!” I lie, only to provoke more sad emotions, bubbling up and pouring out.

“I love you, Mummy!” I hear him softly shout. The wardens hold me back from the train; I only hear his words, again and again.

“My son,” I plead. “He’s only four. Give him back.” I try to push through the crowd, but it’s strength I lack, and now it’s my turn to weep, my turn to be alone. My poor, dear, little boy is leaving home.