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Twice daily, once, I passed this site
and saw the gun – its barrel black
against the morning and the evening skies –
alert for hostile planes, swastika-marked,
and laden with their couriers of death.
Today, cracked concrete playing host
to saplings stands above the gorse
and ponds, a veteran disarmed,
where horses leave their hoof-prints in
the sward – but where imaginative ears
may catch, elusive on the breeze,
a ghostly order to engage.
And there, as deadly in its sphere
as that forgotten gun, a piebald cat
awaits the coming of its airborne prey.

T. C. Hudson

© T. C. Hudson.

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