1974

The first I knew was mum reading out
Irene’s letter, then we looked for news.
Turkey invades Cyprus as a headline;
a bald statement absent of detail.

Arthur had to stay behind, no seat,
priority to ship out civilians, a skeleton
force kept to hold strategic positions
while Cypriots fought for their land.

Families had one day’s notice to leave,
transported like so much NAAFI cargo,
kids clinging to Hurricane webbing,
Brise Norton landing, stowed in a hangar.

Irene wrote of camp beds and blankets,
a make-shift latrine and army canteen
of lumpy mash, mushy peas and spam,
queuing to sign-up for family quarters.

Scabby Nicola left behind her tabby cat,
Theresa, dad’s joke, Green lost Tiny Tears
I would have had to abandon books,
no Lego, no solitaire, no dominoes.

Mum sent mail to rank and serial numbers,
not knowing where to find friends
scrambled to temporary accommodation,
bunked in with relatives or staying put.

Salamis families were forced south,
taking over ransacked blue verandahs,
making do with army issue furniture –
strange belongings in a shell of home.

One O’Clock – Paphos Gate, Nicosia

Air is hot where we sit in the shade of a carob tree.
The water in our water bottle is warm
as is the plastic bottle.

The end of the street is barricaded
with oil drums filled with concrete, rusted barbed wire
stretched over a metal Y no one climbs.

There’s a sign against the sandbags,
one of welcome from the Catholic church*,
the mouth of its doorway neutral in this instance.

Its front door opens into dangerous darkness.
The obstacle of metal and wire climbs over its tiles.
Behind, there’s a square bell tower come watch tower.

The back wall of the church is in a different country.
The church could be a meeting place
for separated families.

Small cavities pock the sandstone façade
like bullet holes, no. I realise they are bullet holes.
Repairs to this side show neat grey paving.

Cars run the serpentine street
diverted away from this dead end, follow
its fresh yellow lines away from this fleeting rest place.

We drink the last of the tepid water,
consult the map of the city’s bastions, where to look next.
The bell strikes a solitary chime as we walk away.

*Holy Cross, Catholic Church