deepundergroundpoetry.com
Somewhere over France
The propeller note drones without turbulence,
breathing is heavy onto glass and leather,
the silence of blue stretches out simplicity.
Underneath, it taps in the slip stream,
trapped on the wing, a mission incomplete.
Pockets of air slap hard and shake it loose,
rattles turn tranquil as the burden falls away.
Farmhouse kitchen, tea towel over sink, bacon sizzling,
tiny shoes have just brought in fresh eggs.
She smiles at the whistling, looks up at the morning,
moments before the bomb slams through the roof.
breathing is heavy onto glass and leather,
the silence of blue stretches out simplicity.
Underneath, it taps in the slip stream,
trapped on the wing, a mission incomplete.
Pockets of air slap hard and shake it loose,
rattles turn tranquil as the burden falls away.
Farmhouse kitchen, tea towel over sink, bacon sizzling,
tiny shoes have just brought in fresh eggs.
She smiles at the whistling, looks up at the morning,
moments before the bomb slams through the roof.
Published 9th Jan 2020
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