The Playing Fields of Newcastle, 1944.(Poem)

 
THE PLAYING FIELDS OF NEWCASTLE, 1944 
 
   Beneath the swings are depressions 
   made on bare dirt by brown feet 
   marking take-off for the topmost bar, 
   forbidden by parents, who aren't looking now. 
   We jangle the swing chains, tangle them, 
   flying up to the bar, skinny bums hard 
   against splintery seats, exultant, 
   level with tree-tops, looking down 
   on the pock-marked park, raddled by drought. 
 
   The song du jour, "Don't Fence Me In", 
   is bellowed out fifty ways across the park, 
   bringing a smile to the Yanks over the road, 
   guarding a crumpled airplane, 
   too good to throw away, sitting in a suburb 
   for airforce reasons, which is for no reason at all. 
   Flirtatious children, hungry for gum, 
   climb all over the wreckage, ignoring 
   bulletholes in the fuselage, 
   for what is death during a war? 
 
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