Poems

NEAR COLTISHALL

Dark on the evening sky
(Though one gleams coldly bright
Caught by the sun's last light)
The thunderous aircraft fly
Into their deepening night:

Distracted from my page
I watch each passing plane -
The virtue of Montaigne
Is innocent to gauge
The wrath that they contain.

O privacy, retreat!
What fastness is secure
From that pervasive roar,
Who shall escape defeat
From what we dream of war?
...