Poets' Corner

SUBMITTED by Odd Bod John Ibbotson of Alfred Cove, WA,
from "The Aeroplane" magazine of February 1941:

AIR GUNNER

I died above the clouds
But still I know
My tiny house, and garden gay
And all the kindly folk who stand and sympathise.

My little tin-roof garage, too, where fussy little cars pulled in.
"Four gallons please, And check the oil….."
And paid, and drove away
Down long roads leading towards the shining sea.

And then, it seemed so many years ago,
I heard the whistling crack of M.G. Seventeens
Too late. For nothing matters now.
Because, you see, I died above the clouds.
A.A.A.T.

COMING IN

For each his own allotted space,
To streak along at maddened pace,
To turn again in fog's embrace
And wait.
Whilst others blindly groping past,
Through grey damp murky overcast
To yellow glim of earth at last
And land.

Minutes ticking, engines turning,
Tanks are lighter, petrol burning,
Not much longer keep them churning
And wait.
Now fifty minutes overdue;
God, I wish they only knew
How much you want to drop right through
And land.

"Come in now, you so and so,"
Remarks the voice down there below,
So gliding slowly round you go
And wait.
For something real to raise its head
As downward blindly you are led,
From eerie flight, to sink instead,
To land.
J.D.W.