From The Wide Blue Yonder

Staring, he shades his eyes.

The sky, yawning, blue, empty.

Eight minutes late, mission complete.

Will his squadron be together once more?


He’d kicked away their chocks.

Prepped them for take-off.

They’d bantered, laughed, one had sung;

just boys, disguising their terror like men.


His wishful thinking?

No,  there’s the first dot.

As a cloud of midges, buzzing,

they approach, darkening the sky.


He’d counted them out.

He strains those mournful eyes.

Landing gear down, planes descend.

Once more he counts. Nine? No, ten.


Two missing.



1 Comment

  1. Phil

    Nice. Captured the sense of anticipation of planes returning from a mission, knowing some may not make it back home.


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