Poem By Jerry Pike
Ducking my car,
I sped greenly up the half-hill,
below flight paths,
toes over pedals, eyes skyward,
always hovering for a low plane.
And there they were,
cold war anoraks,
grouping loosely in secret service stoops.
Each a telephoto lens or binoculars,
homed at the runway
through a chain link diamond.
You’d think they were bathed in guilt,
spying for Kremlin smiles, but no.
Fanatics mostly, cutting and pasting,
twin wing dreams
to their emulsion boxes.
Waiting for the police, move on.
Then I read Spitfire tales like a zealot,
air arm sorties and death charmed heroes
cultivated my arable grey to air force blue.
Sweetheart badges, silk scarves
and dispersal points, gripped me.
Each ace or card a game player,
dragging Sussex and Kent into
a lone world war two battle zone.
I drooled facts and G forces,
characters and scrambles,
and the sky fell.
So I edge nearer, wish he’d budge up,
this hedge scratches,
and the views too tight for a large SLR.
And It’s not an anorak I tell you,
it’s a Parka!