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by Vera Rich
ABERPORTH, 1940
It was not rockets then, but the great-mouthed guns
Sharp through November air. (I in my dress
Of knitted red, brown-skinned still from the sun's
Last kisses, dancing to the wind's caress
On the high cliffs; three years, and one of war
Were all my life), guns sharp and chill as the dew,
And the scarlet sleeve where the Anson chugged before,
And the scarlet sleeve trailing across the blue.
It was not rockets then, only the guns
Echoing sharp as lances on the green
Shield of the hills.... Long years back, I forgot
All else, but the greenshield hills where an echo runs
In a cascade of trumpets, sea like sheen
Of silk, and the sleeve a gage from Camelot.
First published in The Reading Mercury. Ansons were unarmed wooden biplanes, used in the early days of World War II for various non-combatant duties, including basic training of pilots; also, as here, to tow the "sleeve" used as a target in gunnery practice.
SHOULD YOU ASK ME...
Should you ask me of D-Day, I would say
'Cataracts', for that night the sky roared, pulsing
Wave upon wave of heavy-bellied engines;
And afterwards, in blue morning, crimson roses,
I found, had fallen from their fence-board moorings,
Falling, cascading – not like blood, nor rubies,
Nor fire, nor any metaphor...
just roses,
A waterfall of English roses...
Then
Came the third cataract, a lone lark singing,
High, high above the empty plane-ways, hidden
Among the sunbeams...
First published in Manifold. All poems copyright by Vera Rich. Ms. Rich is the founder of Manifold magazine. Read a biographical sketch.
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