Email Poem

Your IP Address: 104.23.243.100

From Email:	Required Email Address Not Valid.
To Email:	Email Address Not Valid. Required
Subject	Required
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem	We sat in the belly of the aeroplane and held out for sirens to swerve across the grass; men with cutting gear and masks. No-one came. On a back seat, Mr. Phillips bandied jokes to pass the time; the dark air cooling our arms and scents like burrs stitched in hair, clothes. In the distance we swore we heard alarms before HQ radioed the fire-drill’s close, and we emerged still feigning breaks and scrapes led by teacher bandaged and bad at the hip, attentive to this miraculous escape. Our shadows thin creatures from the Mother Ship. * That view of Bob Phillips’ dance down the steps comes back when I think of him alone on the fairway, trailing scarves of breath as he lugs clubs beyond the lake-side ninth for home, and feels sharp tingles, then a rip-tide through his arm that swells to pains across his chest. To stand there, cry out above the calm, and wait for hands, a touch – but Bob is destined to collapse in thick grass, lie wide for the day in a hide and seek open to everyone. No-one for miles comes close to play. His big face surprised the world is taking so long.
	Type the characters you see in the picture Required

Member Area