Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

The concrete balcony
three fl oors up
was the perfect viewing point,
apart from the days
wet laundry fi lled it.
On its return to empty
you could stand
holding the washing cord,
moving red plastic pegs
back and forth,
until interrupted
by a loud knocking
on the balcony door,
and a strict order,
to get off the bloody line.

Our block was number 13,
it was the last block
in a military line,
the last stop
before open countryside,
only a single train track
with a level crossing
to break up the view.

If you hung around
observing the scene,
the land would be fi lled
by German families
cycling on the small path,
from the tiniest tot
to the greatest granny.
Smart happy children,
bursting in bright coats
neat satchels on their backs,
entire families together,
walking or cycling
laughing and skipping.

I was so in love with them
I’d sit transfixed for hours.

Whilst inside the flats
the English occupiers
sat silent by their tellies,
mothers washed an endless
supply of khaki uniforms,
and off duty dads
washed their precious cars,
soaping and waxing
in tight self discipline.

Three floors up
I felt separate from it all,
army quarters distanced
from my balcony sanctuary,
why, I was almost German.
I so wanted to be German,
with a bright satchel
fl oating over the fi elds
past the level crossing.
At times I’d catch the eye
of a family,
and as I smiled and waved
they would happily wave back,
confi rming to me
that which I already knew —
I belonged with them,
not inside the quarters
of the British army,
fl at 5, block 13, Espenweg.