“We’ll take a picnic down to the brook” said Mother.
Aunt Win put down her knitting, fussed with
the frumpy grey knot of her hair. “That sounds nice.”
Gran worried about an air raid while we were far from home.
Mother said that daytime raids were rare these days.
We took fresh bread, hard boiled eggs, Red Cheshire
cheese, black current tarts, and lemonade in old,
long necked wine bottles. I liked that because I knew
that Grandad’s cold tea was packed in the same
bottles for his lunch as he took care of the
village lanes around us. I liked the feeling of connection
that gave a measure of closeness in the fearfulness
of our days.

We crossed the meadow, the railway tracks,
grassy fields full of meadowsweet.
I wanted to go and walk by the tall poplar trees,
that edged the river, but war
was still on grown-ups’ minds.
“Stay close and walk with us.” Aunt Win said.

We walked single file on the thick half-tree trunk,
black from how many years of creosote, that was
the Swinging Bridge. It was called that although I saw
no way that the bulky construction could ever move.
I hung carefully onto the heavy railings, and insisted that my
little brothers did the same. In my head was a
suspicion that if the bridge had such a name, there
must be a reason, and it could swing away at any moment,
with magical, evil consequences.

Safely over the bridge, we sad down on the grassy
and sandy bank that sloped toward the brook.
My brothers and I took off our canvas shoes,
stepped over clouds of forget-me-nots into the shallow water.
Little fishes, Sticklebacks and Tiddlers, darted round our feet.
The water was cool and fresh and a bed of pebbles
had some small sharp stones, which didn’t allow for
wandering attention.

Mother arranged our lunch on an old damask tablecloth
on the grass, and we settled down to eat.
A breeze stirred the perfect summer air, and I shivered.
The lemonade was sweet, but its coolness less than
enjoyable now. My brothers did not want to waste time
with their food, because there were so many tiny
fishes to chase into the shadows of bushes that
formed a dark tunnel over the brook a short distance away.

There was a sudden rumble in the distance. Immediately
Aunt Win scrambled to rise. She knocked over her
lemonade and took no notice. “Come on. The siren will go in a minute.”
She stood up and turned to hurry toward the bridge.
Mother said “It’s not a raid, it’s thunder.”
Aunt Win didn’t listen. We hurried to put together the picnic
things, and to catch up with her.
She was scrambling and sliding as she struggled up the slope.
Her long skirts became disheveled, showing her thick grey woolen
stockings, the ones she knitted in the evenings at our house.

Mother, out of breath, tried to tell her again that is was a thunder storm
and not an air raid. Aunt Win was on the bridge, wheezing for breath
and sort of pulling herself along the side rails. At that moment clouds climbed over
the backdrop of trees at the top of the slope, and then hid the sun.
Finally Aunt Win stopped, looked at the sky, and after a moment
began to laugh, although she was still struggling for breath.
It began to rain big, cold drops that would soak our hair and clothes
in a few minutes, but now we were all laughing.
At home, Granny made tea, and laughed too,
at our foolishness, and our soaked clothes.