Across this patchwork baking,
like over-ironed brownshirts, to a dustbowl
look on our clouded hills:
rain is coming.
As gathering shadow unfolds
take refuge while you can.
A derelict pillbox will serve.
In the lock stock stillness
of concrete slab set in pasture
we hide inside.
Refuse to betray our position,
ready for the deluge.
Four embrasure slits to watch from:
no-one may advance unseen
not east, not west, not north, not south.
Outside these shell-proof walls
wind is rising.
Night falls upon little England.
ix. 2026
No comments:
Post a Comment