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Hot were the guns that night,
sending up hell’s delight
where air-borne flares were bright
and the red tracers.

Dull red the barrels glowed,
quenched when sea water flowed
in gallons manifold,
bucket on bucket.

Driving the bombers high,
in that calm May night sky,
thwarting attempts to fly
near their objective.

Polish the naval crew,
to best traditions true,
fired till the raid was through,
saved town and dockyard.

Cowed in a shelter we
lived an eternity,
thought never dawn to see
of the next morning.

Scattered the fire-bombs fell,
near us a blazing hell,
no hose on earth could quell,
burnt wooden hangars.

Dear was the price to pay,
ninety civilians lay
lifeless at break of day,
culled by the Reaper.

 

Originally selected for inclusion in The Hounds of Cridmore and Other Isle of Wight Poems, a book of Mr Hudson’s poetry with many illustrations by Heather Cobb, this poem was subsequently not used owing to lack of space.

 

T. C. Hudson

© T. C. Hudson.
This work may not be reproduced without prior permission of the author.

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