The cawing crows evoke a darker ‘c’ –
cawcinogenic. And that cloud is swollen,
metastasizing. Cram your cap down lower,
abandon this old airfield – time to flee,
but where? Perhaps the station would be best.
Maybe stay there and tank up in the buffet.
It’s as I said. Or anyway, said someone,
and in a poem. Before, somebody else.
I was the one, though, it was I who wrote
about the rain lowering above the field,
about the piss-arse pilot fast asleep.
Another country, and an age ago.
…
Perhaps do nothing? Should I shield my sight
and meekly as the lamb cleave to the altar?
The crows are cowering. Soon a storm will rattle,
and prove their blackest diagnosis right.