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This poem taks me back to childhood. We lived in the era of the gold rush one moment, the Second World War the next

RISKS Scarred hills, risked mine shafts, dark and deep. The plonk of a stone, dropped into water, far below. Kids drifted to sounds of the gold-rush, pick and windlass. But inside our school, Sir recruited afternoon classes into battle. We piloted Spitfires, strafing Messerschmitts. Bingo! The plane aflame, out of control. Drifting down, down. A spiral of smoke. Our teacher paced, face aglow. Alive to the tremble, the thrill, in distant summer skies. Windscreen hit, the scatter of shattered glass. His odyssey of courage and blood … At three thirty, older boys reminded Sir, Time to go home. Surprise in our mentor’s eyes . His Spitfire hadn’t even landed.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2020




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