Warbird

07:55 a.m. deep in Oxfordshire; in-country, as it were.
They start early here, the twitchers and the ramblers,
be-gaitered, be-sticked, armed with binoculars
and dangling cameras with large hooded lenses.
Small groups, deep in hushed conversation,
innocents abroad, as ineluctible as the
pillows of morning mist hanging
in the fields and gentle valley dips.

This is serious anorak territory

and I am just the happy wanderer,
caught up in it, but apart, and I have already
seen the crows circling the gravel pits.
Seen the fox too, in good nick he was,
fat from the glut of reedbed mice;
and the trees are turning now,
burgeoning colours that herald spring
and celebrate the death of winter,
and the air hangs heavy
with the scent of the earth.

Then out of nowhere they come,

roaring and screaming at  low level.
giant engines whining in protest
at the impossibility of lugging
130 plus tons of metal through the air;
trailing black fumes that shimmer
momentarily, in the scorching exhaust
as the transport planes climb,
lazy and improbable,
angled up towards cruising altitude.

They look quite beautiful

Illuminated by the morning sun,
and I watch, fascinated as they claw
through the clear Oxforshire air,
and I forget for a moment that they are
doubtless carrying many a mother's son,
full of nervous bravado after the good-luck party,
the pats on the back, the shaking of hands
and I remember, oh, how I remember.

And the morning traffic hums on the distant by-pass.

And the black as sin crows spiral up in the air.
And the planes look like crucifixes from underneath.
And the quality of light reminds me
of another time in another somewhere,
that comes to me in flicker-frame memory,
and though these are different flights
they have the same destination;

For they carry young men, mostly

steered by lack of opportunity, because
the world has turned on its head and working
for minimum wage and no future, is no future.
Because they preferred some kind of adventure,
wanted the purpose put back into life.
But I am, for the moment at least,
the happy wanderer; though still apart,
wishing I could gift those young men
another time, another somewhere,
as the transporters become no more
than distant dots in the never ending sky.

Reviews

[Casey Truax]

You have a great grasp on voice; every word is perfect to make a compelling scene. The transition to wistful introspection feels completely natural and fitting.

[gram linski]

great poem I liked the way the Natural world was ripped apart by warbird, we have this lovely valley near us that is a fly zone for the RAF and they fly about 500mtrs off the ground, the Red Arrows did a local fete a kind of thank you for disturbing the peace, at least you saw a bit of Nature,

[Chris Shaw]

The early bird catches the wild life. Rise early and you can certainly see much activity. You brought me some delightful imagery of Oxfordshire countryside which I know well. I thought of RAF Benson as I read your lines and have certainly witnessed many planes in the skies that have either taken off or landed there. Certainly my thoughts too over the years and at times of conflict turning to mothers and their sons. I also though of Waterside where we often go for brunch or a drink while we can sit and appreciate the Thames. Thank you for this poem. It distracted me from the troubled times we find ourselves in. I appreciated the trip I went on.

Chris