I hear the engines
when the wind is in the south
A slow whine builds to a scream
holds itself steady for a long count
longer than seems safe
then throttles back in stages
from scream to roar to whine
to silent stop
The day rights itself
everything's in place
but for that kerosene smell
drifting across the valley
that makes the lungs wince
and is the colour of brown mist
Published by colinhopkirk
Poet, writer, artist. Writing and performing in England, publishing anywhere. Member of Hexameter performing poets. Workshops, projects, cross-arts collaborations.
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Colin Hopkirk Poetry 