Then (the Mauls say), the only airport here
was Heston, where Mr Chamberlain took off
for Munich. They had heard the peaceful cough
of his pistons from their greenhouse, whose bleared
panes crack with Boeings now so I canít hear
their words about the war, but see the rough
remains of their shelter and the stone cover
to their well, and wish... But my parentsí fear
permits me only to dream of those unseen
dark places. Nightflights wink into the west
across our hawthorn hedge, towards a Heath
silence has stamped out like something obscene.
I go to bed, and with a tightening chest
lie there, wait, listen, and invent a myth.