Blurred Images Poem by Paula Glynn

Photographs of war are blurred at the edges,
Images unclear, distorted and confused,
As people try to figure out who is who,
And what is what, as those trips down memory lane,
Have forgotten the plot, the struggles, the fights,
And all the violent, black outs of the night,
Many a person wishing they could see the stars,
Instead of staring at the black cloth,
Of blacked out windows,
All frightened of if and when the siren will sound,
Where for most, the only place will be underground,
For the bomb shelters are filled in a hurry,
Women, men and children praying,
Hoping for hopes sake that their homes will still be there,
As they close their eyes and pray,
Begging for a new day, where no bombs fall over London,
And their livelihood is protected,
For money is too tight to mention for some,
Even though many still get their work done,
For no matter how dire people's financial situation,
Money is money and families need to eat,
Not scrounge for food on the streets,
But the photographs of this time are history,
And the blurred images are a mystery.