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Friday, 6 April 2018

This plane has no engine

Silent as dreaming it pushes its nose
through banks of low cloud, shadow-glides
between the next world and this,
grazes the town's sleeping rooftops.
Through the last threads of daylight it tries
to limp home to a fireside long grown cold.

This plane has no engine.

This plane is a shadow.
Without roar or thrum it comes hurtling
towards a smudged horizon.
Its pilot, its crew, are those whose cheeks
were drained of their rosy, young blood.

This plane has no engine.

This plane is a memory,
the imprint of a war fought for
reasons few people can remember.
Daylight is failing as this engine once failed.
Our world falls through the dark like a stone.
This plane perhaps has a ghost of a chance.

But this plane has no engine.

© Abigail Elizabeth Ottley


Abigail Elizabeth Ottley writes poetry and short fiction from her home in Penzance where the sea air and beautiful scenery keep her mostly on the right side of sanity.

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