Echoes

The dark had come,

even with the longest day approaching,

and then, encroaching,

at first a hum,

a horizon hum, unseen,

like distant thunder that hovers,

as the air itself manoeuvres,

where still had been.

But then intensifying,

each second, more,

an air-engulfing roar,

resounding, amplifying.

A summer night, a peaceful night,

and then this echo of before,

or after, the echo of war,

an ominous flight.

And I thought of those

who had lived through, were living through,

were scarred and etched by conflict old and new,

and who dared not suppose

That the thunder that fills

the limpid summer night,

was no cause for fright,

a world where nothing stills.

The noise crescendoed, abated,

the night time exercise

hidden to eyes

dispersed, deflated,

disappeared, and silence came,

or only flustered night-bird singing,

but ears and mind still ringing,

and echoes, restless, exhausted, remain.