I’m reading of Henry Moore’s house,
So close to where I grew up,
So my spirit eagerly hovers
Over the English countryside,
My mind is filled now
With daisies in green fields,
With bluebells in the woods,
A whining noise interrupts,
Grows and fades,
Leaves me uncertain

Reason says a jet plane,
Or the wind, so I glance away
From the book.
Clear sky, unmoving branches,
Reason satisfied.
But reason only parallels my other world
and memory slips into place.

V2 rockets slither toward London,
The whine their only sign of coming.
From my cot it seems they fly
Right by my window.
A red light in the tail going out
Means the missile will drop.

Watch the light, praying
That it will not go out,
That the bomb not make
Its slanting descent
Until it passes our villiage.
Fear meets guilt,
For I know my prayer
Means the  rocket falls
On someone else
Who only now may be picking up
That whine, faint
On the sweet night air.

Guilt is a demon,
Brings me back to my room.
Jet plane or breeze in the chimney.
I must close
The book.