The footsteps

• The footsteps resounded

Around the walls,

They were slow and delibrate

In the empty hall.

This place had once sung

With the joy of the children,

Who had played and had sprung

From the streets of London.

But the war had come

With casualties and death.

They had tried to hold on

To what they had left.

Jerry had come,

With his bullets and bombs.

There was no assylum

From the destrustion and death.

The footsteps stopped.

Because the child had arrived

At the house he had lived in

Before this had begun.

The door had no hinges,

The windows, no glass.

The walls were but rubble

Destroyed en masse.

He looked through the rubble

Until he had found

His old Football,

For the memories it held.