Poetry by Sarah Das Gupta
Blue September skies suddenly slit open;
bombers streaming, screaming overhead.
Even the rooks stopping their raucous gossip,
seek refuge in the avenue of already coppery beech.
The Junkers are returning from the Blitz on London,
casually dropping remaining bombs to lighten the load.
They fly over the downs and Kentish hop fields,
heading for the Channel ports and then the open sea.
Unharnessing his team of chestnut horses,
the ploughman takes refuge in a stand of oaks.
Patiently they wait, swishing the flies off wearily,
familiar sight to generations in the cemetery nearby
In the fading light, they turn the ancient furrow.
Their hooves spark as they plod up the flinty lane.
They fade to ghosts in the lengthening shadows.
New sources of power have begun their reign.
Sarah Das Gupta is a writer from near Cambridge, who is interested in history and often uses historical background for fiction or poetry. She is also interested in the folklore of Eastern UK. She has been nominated for Best of the Net, the Pushcart, and a Dwarf Star.
