Was it a reproduction
Of a Rothko in a book resting on his lap,
A swathe of black sky over
A grey sea, perhaps,
That triggered it.
He recalled pictures of
Brutalist concrete bunkers and silos,
Sinister dark steel ramps,
That carried doddlebugs and V2 rockets.
He relived a moment in a
Museum, a Messerschmitt 109,
Hanging from the ceiling
Tilted at an angle...
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