The autumn air was festooned with bells and all

the houses put out flags, like exhaled breath

for Armistice. Just seven, she remembered

the folded Union Jack in the attic:

as she unfurled its dust her mother

snatched the cloth – ‘We’ve nothing,

nothing to celebrate.’ The letter

from Salonica lay still on the table.

Twenty years later in spring, the rules

for the flat were no pets or children:

the dog and cat were installed, then twins.

Looking up to the guttural canoodling of doves,

brisk and undaunted by threats of another war,

she’d hang out the bright forbidden washing.