The Lancaster

A perfect quiet, then, through dumpling clouds, the kite that defined my childhood thumps the sky.
And  the anger of the Gods is heard again,demanding reverence.
Now in undertones but then with a bass that shreds the heavens,
pulsing static through my hair as
Rolls Royce Merlin engines belt out their aria.
Lumbering from horizon to horizon, taking half a lifetime.
Play stops. Old men dab their eyes. An umpire removes his hat.

John Cooper © Copyright 2011-2019 All Rights Reserved.

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