A final touch from an old hand;
Brass handles, loose and cold
Swing, in musty air, astride dark key-holed drawers
Worn but never forgetting, she
Hunches amongst the pattern of
Red roses and pastel blue.
The Beidermeier stands tall; a relic of a
Guarding the enemy’s treasure
For a keeper it barely knew.
Since ascending on that third day to a
Supermarine sky, the
Who sits watching over but
Once wrote by their side
Waits for his moment.
Through glazed eyes they watch while the
Men pull and heave
Amongst the dust and debris,
Absent objects gleam;
Protected by a shellacked foreigner
Not seen for 70 years.
The sentinel stands down, returning as
She clutches the airman tight – wide eyes
Staring at a Lion, a six-pointed Star and the
Face of a King.