To the Clouds Above
Smoking, choking, back slapping bloking,
false bonhomie in the dawns grey light.
Coffee drinking, tired eyes blinking,
rimmed red from lack of sleep that night.
Nervous twitching, raw skin itching,
pacing the floor, one more cigarette.
Knowing glances, some in trances,
eyes full of hope, some of regret.
Writing letters, hope you're betters,
say hello to the kids for me.
Pin up leching, stomachs retching,
all of life's humanity.
Telephone tension, a brief extension,
suddenly, a blackbird sings.
Then sudden, jarring, silence marring
cacophony as the telephone rings.
Then, action station, perspiration,
time to take another gamble.
Grabbing gear, running in fear,
Scramble! Scramble! Scramble!
Pulling the chute on, zipping a boot on,
over the fuselage and into the 'pit'.
Opening the fuel cocks' take away the wheel chocks,
taxi to the runway, thinking, this is it.
Soaring skyward, watchful the byword,
always looking for the Hun in the sun.
Angels two zero, no time to be a hero,
radio silence and thumb on the gun.
The crackle of static, actions automatic,
time to be a hawk, not a dove.
Combat in the skies, who lives and who dies?
Who falls or soars to the clouds above?
Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020
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