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GANG WAR

   

We cut arrows from hedge stems,

bows from a hazel coppice,

attacked behind pigsties.

   

In 1941, gangs

were conventions of kids

styled with names like Cheyenne

picked from Saturday flicks

at a black and white Odeon.

   

Evacuated from incendiaries

which set fire to our towns,

we acknowledged the big picture:

to help yourself to a country

you killed its children.

   

We were the last innocents,

our war parties picked like teams

with time off for tea.

  

Alan Marshfield

  

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