Circumspice 4
Part 4 -- Night of Brimstone, Dawn of Glory
A world at war. Who can imagine, now,
the clutch of terror which the siren brings?
Its mournful rising, dipping, -- warning how
The Thing's upon us, murder on its wings.
It's nineteen-forty. Only England left.
The Third Reich has annihilated all.
Each night, the waves of bombers come. Bereft
of allies, London waits. Defenceless, small.
This is our life now. London is alone.
Each evening, when we hear that dreadful drone,
we scurry for the shelters. The "all clear" tone
is sounding. Not quite dawn. What can this mean?
The cold air, sulphur... what a glorious scene!
Above the smoke, Saint Paul's still floats, serene.
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