Andrew Mayne
That night as in I went
Walking all that over-heated July day
into the flat depths of East Anglia;
the Peddars Path long lost, darkness falling;
put up, dehydrated, at the Skyrack Inn.
In dreams an owl hooting; the mise-en-scène
an old film stuck in a loop, its props all black;
the air thickening with pipe smoke thermals;
under low beams, RAF boys with pints lip-angled.
Yet, beneath the bonhomie and lukewarm booze,
the fear of my next day's mission's real enough:
dawn scramble - across slick concrete; sabre cuts
gashed above a rear-gunner's transparent hood.
Before breakfast, your casual recce - time enough,
as light comes up on the still nameless village:
able to rejoice. Stunned then by Air Station Lane -
cutting across fields . . .
To hangars and a dozen Nissen huts.
Page(s) 33
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