It had looked so inviting from below,
a low domed hill, and on its crown
a circle of young trees. The climb
was undertaken willingly. We found
the circle ringed a hollow in the ground -
the sort that's not uncommon on these downs.
Best bet: a German bomber, homeward bound
had dumped the remnants of its load. If so,
one bomb had carved a saucer from the chalk.
We weren't the first to see it in those terms:
for someone at a later date, came, stood
an iron mug, a huge and rusting thing,
of purpose indeterminate, smack in
its shallow centre where a cup should go.
Its toppled since that day, stands now aslant,
bumped out of its complacency, no doubt
by the red pedal car, for ever wedged
between a whitebeam and a beech. There was
no road to that high place, which through the years
had sprouted rosebud toilets (broken: two),
a bedstead, fridge and T.V. set, a bike,
a motorcycle (minus wheels) and a
large body-building gizmo with a range
of hooks and chains more like a torturing
machine. A red stain as of blood did not
put any minds to rest. But worst of all -
it was a bigger mess, by God
than that the Heinkel left.
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