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A Cockpit

A Cockpit


Not far the town's railway station

there was a council tip.

To be expected it was full 

of a myriad of rubbish.

My cousin and I walked there

on one of our adventures.

We were forever exploring

finding new places of interest.

As we clambered about

we came across a cockpit

of a fighter plane.

The fuselage and wings 

had been removed.

It was not long after the

end of the war.

I climbed inside

pretending to be the pilot.

I had the enemy in my sights

ready to fire a cannonade.

Then I noticed a glove 

on the floor.

I returned from my imaginary sortie

to this unusual find.

Had it belonged to the pilot?

Was he still alive?

My cousin had not seen it and we soon

returned home.

The image of that solitary

glove has never left me.


◄ An Open Mind

Those Sultry Summers ►


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keith jeffries

Sun 14th Apr 2024 10:14

Thank you to all who liked and commented on this poem. As Stephen says, a distant memory from a childhood in the aftermath of war. A solitary incident which has left a lasting memory, for whatever reason.
Thank you again,

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Stephen Gospage

Sun 14th Apr 2024 09:14

Thank you, Keith. This shows how a fine poem can be built on a distant, and unresolved, memory. It is resonant of a different time, different days.

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Graham Sherwood

Fri 12th Apr 2024 21:41

Excellent Keith,
You leave us all (as do you) wondering!

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