An Airstrip in Essex, 1960
It is a lost road into the air.
It is a desert
among sugar beets.
The tiny wings
of the Spitfires of nineteen forty-one
sink under mud in the Channel.
Near the road a brick pillbox
totters under a load of grass,
where Home Guards waited
in the white fogs of the invasion winter.
Good night, old ruined war.
In Poland the wind rides on a jagged wall.
Smoke rises from the stones; no, it is mist.
Donald Hall
The Selected Poems of Donald Hall, 2015
This poem is very visual.
ReplyDeleteIt really is, isn't it? I'm currently watching Foyle's War and I am pretty immersed in those times.
DeleteVery evocative poem! I see you're watching Foyle's War. LOVE that series!! And I have a huge smile on my face as I see your very familiar header is back. :)
ReplyDeleteThanks! It is a great series. I hadn't seen it since it was first on. I found the poem so very moving. And a little treat to find a picture of DH when he was young. He would have been 32 in 1960.
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