You can see the nightly visitors of Sheffield ‘s past,
Streets deserted like the flamy plains of hell.
The city dressed for battle,
Slow moving barrage balloons drift across the misty sky.
Solitary remains of buildings like fingers pointing in the midnight gloom,
Bullets like 1000 fireworks flickering in the moonlight.
The muffled explosions of distant bombs sound outside the metal shelter,
Fearful families huddled together, scared, frightened, frustrated.
Waiting for their friendly wail of the clear siren,
Anxiously scrambling out of the shelter,
Hoping their eyes don’t see a burning pile of rubble.
by Bryn Wainwright
aged 9, 2010