The Sentinel

The Sentinel

 

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

lost empire

Guarding the enemy’s treasure

For a keeper it barely knew.

 

Since ascending on that third day to a

Supermarine sky, the

Monochrome airman,

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.

 

Jeremy Barron

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