Laura Marsh

Redborne Upper School, Ampthill

Missiles

Nights ago, fire-crackers woke me.
Flashing rude, electric light at my window,
they reeled red in squadrons –
Victory Rockets, Spitfires, Midnight Sun.
I watched the sky flicker with them
like old war films; silver petards reporting
in bursts of confused applause.
Their trails of pink smoke and sulphur hung
long afterwards, bleary skywriting.

Then I dreamed of flying:
usual, uncoded dreams, where I would slip
among large, quiet stars; not soaring
or exploding for a silent crowd