FALKLAND FATALITY

Posted by Admin on 31 January 2009, 12:00 am

No danger gloomed his Dorset sky
when he out-sped the swallows in
their flight –
no threat its blade, unsheathed,
suspended over kith and kin
when duty took him to a fight
eight thousand miles away.
But neither lilac not laburnum,
prolific lanes Spring-white
with stitchwort and wild chervil
can now illume the mood that mourns
his fate – imagines time and time
again his Harrier fragmented and
aflame – sees him in agony
descend to join the honoured dead.

T. C. Hudson