The Dragons Fl y

At Vicenza two squat lethal dragonflies
on algae covered water trundle awkwardly;
give the ‘blip’ to engines warming
as they waddle towards November dawn.
Hesitant these bombed-up dragonflies,
weighty on a field still wet
from last week’s rains.
Engines roaring now, begin their roll,
eating time and space to gain momentum
to launch into the air.
Lombardy poplars speeding by,
wet threshing falls away as two tailskids rise.
Two sets of wheels furrow onward,
reluctant to forsake the meadow’s grass.

Drunkenly the Camels climb
the dampened air and tree line vault,
swing over Monte Berico
to catch the rising thermal there,
and ride it towards the clouds
that seethe above Venetian plain.

- “into thy hands, oh Lord, I commit my spirit” -
For one of them this is
the last day of the war.

At the Austrian surrender
advancing British soldiers moving through
the slaughter pilots made,
in open sorrow wept for their enemies slain
along Pordenone’s road.


James Gagiikwe © 2008