A small pot of gold ink to fill up the pen
to just use on pages nine through to ten
the ivory lace and old Sanskrit face
write down all the dreams of my favourite place
The sound of the scratching in rhythm and tone
can curdle the blood and leak into bone
but the smell of the old ink as slowly it dries
reminds me of home and much happier skies
the clatter of qwerty in old smoky rooms
sound out like an opera, mechanical tunes
three hundred women all on the same path
all breaking a code, but never to laugh
Some perks of the job are not hard to see
American nylon to cover the knee
A brash foreign voice can lead some astray
but may she return to her hometown one day
My mind is recalling the horror last night
a far distant rumble will shorten the fight
the noise and the oil and smell that was then
lay’s waste to my words, and pauses the pen
Pages one through eight for the family to read
they are written in haste with vigor and speed
for when the bell tolls our mission is on
and I must then join, the great British song
I’ve started page nine and my worst fears are ripe
I silenced the gold ink and knocked out my pipe
the pages are folded to hide from the eye
so ready the blue boys for its time to fly
The letter is tucked into RAF brown
“To the parents of Wingman” are now written down
eight of the page are full to the brim
page Nine and Ten empty with just three lines in
My dearest I love you, the love of my life
and I shall be home soon and make you my wife
for now factory sweetheart, I just have to say…..
the letter unfinished, and still so this day