Hear It Now: 1940

Thin static, noise-mess, grainy tuning sounds.
Voice, recognizable. This is London.
The sound you hear the moment,– an air-raid
Siren,– wailing high over the rooftop
Silhouettes. Spotlight bursts into action.
Another behind Trafalgar’s Column.
White light in the capital of the night;
Blackout. Now the hoary searchlight rays,
Roving, rearing, reach up into the sky
And through; or strike cloud; splash against the bloom.
Noise, unintelligible. Twiddle the dial;
Find the way, with voice, with speech, with the word.
I am standing on a rooftop, looking
Out. To my left, red burst far off snaps out
Without report,– too far,– but angry fire
Against the steel-blue sky, invading steel.
White paint across from me, what was a home
Yesterday, and ten years ago, now ruin.
Whispers of a plane above St. Paul’s dome,
Dull thump of the guns working near.
Explosions overhead, but faintly heard.
Interlude. Interruption. Bulletin.
London is burning. London is burning.
Shrill sirens scream. Alarms howl. To shelter.
A sense of unreality pervades,
And there is little meaning in distance:
Sudden flowers of smoke, and streets strewn with glass;
Behold the rubble; eyes reflect no fear
No anxiety, until the bomb-scream
More felt than heard. Down prone, dust-dowsed, struck dumb.
Breathe. Stand up. Later, the human wreckage
That fill a half-dozen ambulances
Push home the human cost of tragedy.
Go, press on, onwards, groping through the dark;
Hand meets another urging human shape
In passing. Back to the sirens? I hold
The rough-wrought wrist I will not hold again.
The meaning is known though the words are weak.
Yes. Good night, and good luck. My friend. Godspeed.