Spitfire Pilot

A tin Spitfire made by Matchbox bought at
The museum in the city where a real one
Flies in static display above the heads of those
Who go to wonder, mourn and gaze upon war’s
Continual rage

He took me to the shop after we had torn through
Trenches, listened to the man who has sat complaining
About the artillery that never came.
He’s been there these last thirty years, the same
Question - never answered.
A corporal, burly shouldered,
Advises a new recruit on how to keep
His head down, the advice has clearly
Taken root; he’s still there the young man
Unlike those sepia movies
Of countless men in khaki
Being shot at in runs on runs on runs.
It’s not like the films, I can tell you.

He said I could have anything and I agonised over the choice
Guilty about making him spend with what did not grow
On trees
And then my excitement overcame me and I picked up the
Plane in its cardboard box feeling the glow
Of boyish triumph.

Oh, how I couldn’t wait to show it off
To compare it with my friends’ clinical fighter jets
To race with them in the skies as high only
As outstretched arms
Swooping and whirring, spittling out machine gun raspberries
Roaring over the sand pit dropping wailing bombs on tanks
And plastic commandos kneeling with bent rifles and
Misshapen helmets.

But no one was there at the moment of my return
A swing swung idly in a breeze – no boys’ battles
Just an older boy on his bike.
I showed it to him and did not notice the beam in his eye
Above his outstretched arm.
He parked my Spitfire in the sand
In a special tunnel he had groined
And said there it would refuel, its pilot rest.
He skidded off
And I bent to recollect my prize
Confused in my empty grasp
I dug thinking it sunken
It was not there and too guilty to know my shame
My lesson taught and learned
I dared not tell him as he scooped me up
To wash my grainy hands before supper.