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