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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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