At the end of the lane is the end of the line,

a front line – and to rational actors, a line 

in the sand. It was once, just a lane – pitted, rutted. 

Before host nation cared, before the tack tarmac

laden trucks backed up one morning, without warning.

Before sheep walks became elephant proof, before 

bridle turned taxiway. In those days of small things, 

we would cycle down to feel spring speedwell against 

sole, nape. To scent sheep-cropped fescue, scatter curlew,

pick scrape for eggs. Our incursions were good tidy

before chain links. After links and lateral scars 

were carved in our Breckland sward, did mining bee care? 

Did hare, turn a hair? Would curlew sorties confirm /

deny what was there? There may be no amara!

So, we all sought to play in this rum, conjured base.

Before gauges swayed and our Suffolk sands turned to glass. 

Before rolling, oiled cumulus caught us and its 

torrid breeze roiled our broadleaf trees. Before we heard

soundless call or dull pedal notes. Before cuckoo 

clocks got giddy, beneath our feet in rumoured vaults.

We boys were curious for more than blast pens or 

tube alloys – and the digger wasp would help us. Help

delve down to those vaults below chalk, clay, flint and silt. 

Where we’d scamper down surety warrens – play war games, 

take names amongst Harvard Candles born of the dawn.

Once, our insignificance might have saved us. Since,

we’ve learnt the humility of grazing ruminant – 

ready for ritual slaughter. Generations

of crick neck, sloped back – gazing into the middle 

distance (or below), in our small village in Suffolk.

Note: Although never officially confirmed, US nuclear weapons were based at RAF Lakenheath, Suffolk from the 1950s until the 1990s. They are due to return.

Cats crouch in corners,

or follow, weaving

round your legs in terror when

you duck across the street….

Bombs, rockets pound your walls,

shatter dreams to cinders, turn all 

to dust: bloodless, without hope.

When shells burst, 

Kafr Nabl shakes:

streets are streaked with tabbies, 

the once creamy-coated,

with ginger toms & tiger stripes,

cadaverous silver cats famished,

tarnished in the smut of war.

At night cats’ eyes blink green

as shock-waves of artillery 

& mewling, yowling cries

drench sudden air.

Careless death descends 

in fiery embers,

incandescent shrapnel. War slams 

life’s voices shut. Cats have not

asked for conflict, or for pity.

But you will feed them milk, noodles, lentils—

whatever you can scavenge, prowling,

running on all fours between basements,

now a cat yourself, your shadow streaked

as theirs: your soul furred with suffering.

Your breastbone shifts in pity. 

In this barrage-wrecked town,

your arms will cradle them against 

the crump & leap of your own heart.

Purring, they will comfort you…

although their needle teeth, their claws

are as much a match for missiles

as your broken fingernails.