The Fall: A Poem

A few weeks ago I had the honour of seeing a Spitfire in the air not far from my house. She was a newly-refurbished bird with less than 30 hours flight time, but the sound of that Merlin engine remains unchanged from how it did at the height of wartime! It was a sight (and sound) to remember.

I’ve also recently been missing England a lot. Three years since I’ve been to that green and pleasant land… so lately I’ve been enjoying a lot of patriotic music, and have been listening to the part of my heart that will always be in England.

Anyway, these two events really influenced me to share this poem with you today; full of aviation and British nostalgia, it’s one from my archive which I hope you will enjoy.

The Fall

Aflame, I fall

A burning carcass beside me

The wings that served me nobly

Now shrapnel plummeting to the sea.

We spiral wildly

As we did in triumph

But now we are the fallen

Soon to be silent.

He came from the sun

A ferocity I never knew

Until we burned like the rays

Which disguised him from my view.

I look around

As she falls down, my noble bird

Twisted metal, shrieking

The saddest sight in the world

She soared like a lark

Like an angel; and stung like a bee

Not meant to fall, though now she does

Further away from me.

Further and further

To the sea, my little Spitfire

Burning like the fury of her name

Ablaze, like a pyre.

And she is gone, her fury now extinguished

It was only through her spirit

That I became distinguished

And I mourn her,

Even as I spiral and burn

Towards the same ruin

Which awaits me in my turn.

My aeroplane gone,

My eyes fall to the north

To the green and pleasant land

Undefiled by war

England, my home

Keeper of my heart

Yet I fall in exile

England and I apart.

The chalky cliffs

Stand resolute, and beckon

But I won’t reach them

They are too far, I reckon.

I feel England’s song;

Her heartbeat in my very own

Mine failing, hers goes on

I pray for evermore.

And I pray now

For a final return

To those shores, those cliffs

For which I yearn

I do not need

To be recalled in thought or name;

But only for England to accept me back

And I will feel no shame.

 

© Adair E. R. Jacobs, 2018

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