Olga Dermott-Bond
Bad rays
came out of the television, so me and my sister
weren’t allowed to sit too close. John Craven
looked more serious than usual, showed us
a grey building with a shredded hole in the middle
and slate-coloured people shrunk in hospital beds.
I didn’t know anything about creaking power plants
that leaked their stuffing like old sofas, years away
from learning about atoms or watching government
reels with faces peeling like grapes, families of plastic
dummies in Utah frothing, boiled milk spilling
from a pan. Mum had brought the good carpet
from the last house with us, and I could jump
across its deep blue to each bright yellow circle
that repeated itself over and over all the way
to the kitchen. We had to turn over to UTV
when dad got in, endless fuzzy arguments over
marching up roads, Ian Paisley shouting. Petrol
bombs. Six counties I could cover with my thumb.
When school finished in July, Mum said we should
play outside all day, but before teatime, our noses
were inches away from Tony Hart and Morph,
then Newsround again, which showed some
pictures the children from that huge country
had drawn: a place unframed with blasted trees,
green rain, no birds, no sun, bad rays—