Saturday, 18 November 2017

Our door in the war

When we were young doors were different
They let people in didn't shut them out
Were poor as church mice like most in the street
Key was on a string behind the letterbox
Us kids would haul it up to get in then
Raid the bread bin and fight over any crust
Until Mum came home to cook a real meal
In wartime everyone was poor like us
Even the man up the street with a car
Not that he could drive it without gas
That was rationed too as most things were then
Food, clothes, even sweets, (lollies or candy)
We had to survive a week on four ounces
So had ours when we went to the flicks
Kids could never last all through the film
What with Tarzan, cowboys and Mickey Mouse
At some time I'd dash out to the toilet
Find my way back to my seat in the dark
Then whisper to find out what happened
Lady behind us would be cross and say "Shush!"
Hoping the manager didn't throw us out
To leave us staring at the closed doors
Did once, so went to the river and got wet

Image found at


  1. Love the memories in this... I think that it's the differences that make us lock the doors more than being rich and poor... but when I grew up I had to lock the door and have a key around my neck

  2. Aptly titled. The hinges of those doors were oiled only with charity, but it seems to have been enough. Fine door through which to find daily life good--maybe better even?-- in a time of war.

  3. Funny how the doors opened in times of trouble can offer the most huh?

  4. Although not a war baby, your words resonate, remind me of my childhood.
    We were not poor, but certainly not rich, and everything we had was saved for. Only Christmas and birthdays brought material things, and little as they were, we were overjoyed and grateful thanks were true.
    I remember unlocked doors and still we felt safe. And how passing strangers gave a friendly Hello...
    Anna :o]

  5. Amazing memories in this, Robin! I remember my grandmother telling me that she never felt the need to lock the doors or shut the front gate in her times.. sigh.. how time changes..

  6. Wonderful memories in this. I still don't lock the doors to my home although I occasionally lock the doors to my heart. Excellent poem.

  7. My childhood was a door to a tiny house where we were never hungry, but sat silent. Our family was built on pain. Much of it I didn't know until my parents were gone.