On Hotham Park, August, 1942 The Channel ruffled its cheesecloth beyond Hotham Park, under a sky-trail of hieroglyphic contrails, Spitfires, black-crossed Messerschmitts and Wolfes. With sharp faces we cheered the home-side kills, the falling fighter's pirouettes, the tail-spun crumps and fiery columns cloaked as failing comets. None imagined the panicked gauntlet grappling with a stick when the cock-pit jammed, how far they were from home, what dying here revoked. But what was it in our upturned childish faces, what threat did he suppose, this airmen turning back towards the land when home was calling? We watched him turn, a glint shown on his cock-pit glass with fire sent flickering from each wing, not reckless Phaeton in a burning chariot, some other thing, a hot-shot teenage air-ace working children from the bone. Adam Cairns Adam Cairns is a poet and photographer who lives in South Wales. He can often be found shivering and wet trying to photograph birds. When he warms up, he sometimes writes poetry. @AdamAcorns
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May 2025
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