The hostel women came one summer evening
after tea. The noise brought Judith and me
from hiding-from-the-Germans, our game
in the bushy borders of the gardens
in our block of flats off Finchley Road.
A crowd of women, with some small children –
a few men were outside on the pavement –
were at the back of the building where we were
forbidden to go and the bins were kept.
A row of aspen saplings, planted
alongside the back fence, was shimmering.
The women were shouting and banging bin lids.
“House us now! House us now! House us now!”
“Look at this!” yelled one of the women.
“This is how the rich live!” She was holding high
a leatherette hand bag. It was my auntie’s.
I felt guilty. She had explained to Nanny,
“It’s worn. The war’s over, mama!”
We heard a police siren drawing near.
One of the men whistled. The bag was flung
into the branches of the nearest tree.
Back in the flat, high above everything,
I heard Nanny and Grandpa talking.
The Germans had bombed where the families lived.
I thought of me and Judith hiding,
and wondered if I dared tell about
the bag hung in a tree.