I’m stood here on the platform;
I’m holding my mother’s hand.
There are things that are going on -
Things that I don’t understand.
Me and all the other kids,
We’re being sent away;
We’re going down to Devon –
Which I know is a long, long way.
I hope that they’ll be really nice -
The folks I’m staying with.
I’m dying to see the countryside,
Where the cows and sheep all live.
We’re all going far away,
To keep us safe from harm;
I’ve never seen a hill or stream,
And I’ve never seen a farm.
Some of the kids are excited,
While others are full of fear.
Some have smiling faces.
While others are crying tears.
‘Mum, are you coming to? ’
I overhear a little girl ask,
As I stand there tightly clutching
My case and my gas mask.
It’s a little like an adventure –
Like an extended holiday.
My mother, she has told me
To be good and really brave.
Just before I board the train,
My mother, she hugs me tight;
As I stare out of the window,
She calls, ‘Don’t forget to write! ’
I see the tear-stained faces,
As the shrill whistle blows;
Exactly where any of us’ll end up,
None of us really knows.
I’ll miss my home and my dog,
And I’ll miss my dad and mum.
Me and all the others can’t wait
until this war is over and done.
Angela Wybrow
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-evacuee/
