AIR RAID MESSAGE WHITE

Au. night the planes have droned and throbbed overhead Faint droning, loud urgent throbbing, dying away, Again and again like recurrent phases of fever.

Sometimes the shuddering thud of bombs, a distant glare, Sometimes the loud hasty roar of our fighters pursuing.

Machine guns chatter, recede, and sink into silence again.

Now the searchlights again are restlessly weaving Their lovely patterns, dimming the misty stars.

Dull thumps of ack-ack shells, an explosion at sea, And always between, the spaces of dreaming silence And the new faint drone that swells, grows urgent, and dies.

Sword-girt Orion swings west as the hours drag onwards, Again into silence the droning dies away.

Now a cock crows and a faint wind stirs in the trees.

The misty darkness chills to the dawn, and at last

Indoors a bell is trilling. I lift the receiver,

Thickly the hoarse tired voice says " Air raid message white."

" Thank you," and far away I hear the sirens " All dear."

My heart flutters and pounds in its clumsy cage of body, Brother Ass overdriven. No matter, the night is done, The air raid message is white. I slip from my shoulders The Atlas load of this tiny corner of England.

I lie down, stretch my limbs, and thick tides of sleep roll inwards.

Our Father—lighten our darkness—perils and dangers—

Not of this night, night's over. Thank God for safe keeping.

Tomorrow I'll sleep, and the planes may drone unheeded, Someone else will be Atlas. The first birds twitter.

Unbombed, uninvaded, in safety the hamlet is waking.

The grass is silver with dew. The air raid message is white.

A. E. N. ANDREWS.